


details of an asteroid

by dantiloquent



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Mentions, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Angst, Fluff, Librarian!Phil, M/M, Pining, Uni Student!Dan, Unrequited Love, implied depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 88,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dantiloquent/pseuds/dantiloquent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you think about it, aliens probably believe in us, too. We’ve got our own intergalactic cheerleaders.” </p><p>When Dan and Phil keep bumping into each other, they eventually give in to chance and start talking. Soon enough, Dan makes a home at the library Phil works at, and they talk about nothing and everything so often that there is no going back. The two survive the future just fine, until they learn the flaws of leaning the weight of your existence on someone else’s shoulders.</p><p>this fic won 2nd place in the "best fic" and third place in the "best story line" awards in the <a href="http://pianoboyhowell.co.vu/post/136691223911/official-winners-of-the-phanfic-awards-2015">phanfic awards 2015!!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was my fic for pbb 2015!!! you can read on tumblr [here](http://pianoboyhowell.co.vu/post/130356871036/for-the-phandom-big-bang-2015-title-details-of-an) so go check that out/please reblog if u can! (as well as finding full notes and other things!)  
> thank u to alex/philslesters on tumblr for the lovely art that you can find [here](http://philslesters.tumblr.com/post/130357133719/i-miss-you-phil-says-absently-theres-the) and [here!!](http://philslesters.tumblr.com/post/130357135814/part-2-of-art-for-dantiloquents-amazing-fic)
> 
>  
> 
> **warnings for alcohol mentions, implied depression, brief homo/biphobia (internalised)**

It has a bed.

That’s a good start, Dan reckons; the room has a bed, as well as a small selection of other furniture that he is slowly taking in. All of them are rickety and worn, a broken could-be family, but they provide a place to sleep and a place to work, at the least, so he’s grateful. _They’re well loved_ , he firmly decides. There’s a pall of dust over the desk and set of drawers, and the walls are four blank edges of plain wallpaper that are all flushed with sunlight, but give it a few posters and a few nights sleep, and he can see himself settled in. He’s always had a certain weakness for beams that streak through the ceiling.

A breeze slips under the door and skips at his feet, skittering across the floorboards and leaving cold kisses on his ankles. The hum of traffic tangles in the curtains but gets no farther.

“You reckon you’re gonna be ok?” his mother asks as she manoeuvres another box through the door. It lands on the mattress with a muffled thud, sending another one knocking into the wall. Outside the window, someone is calling another person’s name.

His parents aren’t leaving for a while - they’re helping him unpack, thank God - but Dan knows why his mother is asking as if she’s leaving already. In some ways, she already has.

Dan casts his gaze around the room, pretending she’s only talking about the room.

“I’ll try.”

-

Things Dan learns in the first few weeks:

  * University isn’t like how they show it in films (though, he doesn’t know _why_ he ever thought that. Damn optimism.)
  * The campus is a lot bigger if you’re alone and lost
  * He would be on time for his morning lectures if he had a friend to pour cold water over his head, or something.



Papers with incomplete sentences are strewn over the desk and the bed and the floor; the maps on campus are useless, and, with animated faces offering no help, he is left wandering endlessly. Lunch fills in for breakfast, while breakfast takes the form of sloshing coffee and a crumbling cereal bar. He tries to restrain his sleep schedule, going to bed at midnight, not three AM, but all attempts are in vain.

It sucks.

-

Dan meets his friends in the fifth afternoon of his third week, and is alone no longer. The beginning is stained by the coffee he spills onto the floor, barely avoiding one of their jumpers; he crashes into them when going around a corner, and it’s messy.

It had been going so well.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he spurts, eyes wide and hands reaching out from a last ditch attempt to catch the tumbling paper cup. His apology is aimed at two people he recognises from the corridors: both with disheveled mops of hair and thankfully empty hands. (And, fuck this, they’re both awfully pretty. This isn’t fair, this isn’t what he signed up for.)

“No worries,” the first says, and Dan flashes them both a grateful smile when it’s made clear they aren’t going to kill him.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I managed it; I just wasn’t looking and there’s a corner and -”

“It was either you or me,” the other assures, his friend nodding in agreement, and Dan feels himself blush. To his surprise, one of them sticks out a hand.

“Chris.”

“Dan.” Chris shakes his hand warmly, and Dan winces slightly at his own clammy palms.

“Peej, let me introduce you to my clumsy accomplice, Dan. Dan, PJ; PJ, Dan.”

“Hi, Dan,” PJ welcomes him with a careless grin and another handshake. “How are you doing?”

“Hi. Um, I’m, I’m good, actually. It’s all going swimmingly.”

Chris snorts. “Was that intended?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Chris slaps him on the back, “Well done, son.” He pauses. “Unless you’re not comfortable with that, in which case -”

“Son’s good. Refreshing.”

PJ narrows his eyes, says, “That sounded like a Dad Joke to me.”

“Uh,” Dan laughs, “Let’s stay away from that side of things.”

They laugh. “Sure, son,” Chris agrees. Doesn’t slap him on the shoulder this time, for which Dan is glad: Chris has a firmer hand than he thinks.

“Now, I do believe we need to replace that coffee?” PJ nods towards the spillage at their feet.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly -” Dan starts to decline, taking a step backwards to avoid the advancing liquid.

“Are you doing anything this evening?”

“Well, no.”

“Then it’s sorted. We were just going out into town for a bit, want to come?”

-

Dan just needed some time to adjust.

The lectures themselves may be a chore, but at least his room has maintained some order, and he’s waking up early enough for him to care for his appearance and straighten his hair. The campus isn’t a maze anymore, and Chris and PJ take the edge off anything, should he be irked in any way.

“I mean, it’s still crap,” Dan says to them one night. The damp grass tickles his neck and there aren’t any stars out, but the mass of cloud poses as entertainment enough. “But it was always going to be, wasn’t it? Now it’s just,” he waves his hand roughly in the air, “ _kinda_ crap. You guys make it better. Well.” He pulls a face, and Chris rolls his eyes.

“That’s what we’re here for, obviously,” PJ says.

“We were paid.”

-

Dan has a paper to finish, and he tells PJ and Chris this information with a groan when they come over to his house with the prospect of doing something this afternoon.

“And I need to go to the library,” Dan adds, kicking at the leg of his desk.

PJ offers, “We can go with you, if you’d like,” and Dan twists around in his chair.

“Really?”

“Sure. We are your friends, Dan, we’re not gonna leave you to suffer alone.”

Dan rolls his eyes, and the word _friends_ sticks between his teeth when he smiles.

“Alright, then,” he announces, stands up and gathers his belongings together, “Let’s go.”

When they arrive at the library, PJ and Chris find them a corner to sit in while Dan retrieves the book he requires. Minutes later he joins them, seated around a table surrounded by bookshelves, and gets to work.

The library isn’t small. The main one in the city, it stretches out far on either side, the matchbox shelves at the back barely visible and undefined from the entrance. To the left are the DVDs, CDs, and any other media; the children’s section fills the back left corner - the area is clearly marked by brightly coloured seats, shelves and tables, the wall pasted with different posters and murals. Through a glass door is the non-fiction area, filled with more etiolated newspapers and WW1 books than Dan can count. At a curved desk sits the receptionist, with the reserved books shelf splayed out at her back.

Despite its size, the library is filled with many cosy corners. The bookshelves are arranged in such a way that they section off parts, guarding the reader on each side while they work at the tables or read on one of the beanbags. The group is seated in one of these cubby holes, hidden behind glossy wood.

“Hey, Peej,” Chris says, “I found your favourite book.” He leans back in his chair and jabs a finger at the cover of some paranormal novel. Dan doesn’t recognise it, but it probably involves ghost sex. He snorts and buries his head in his book.

“Oh, yeah,” PJ enthuses, nodding with his eyes wide. “Love it.”

“Did, did you know,” Chris says, in between little bursts of laughter. Setting his chair back on all four legs, he continues, “He’s read it five -”

“Ten.”

“Ten times,” Chris finishes, staring at Dan with a look Dan guesses is meant to accentuate drama.

“What section are we even in?” Dan asks.

“I actually don’t know,” PJ replies.

“Errr.” Chris casts his eyes around. “I think this is just adult fiction.”

“You’re sure this isn’t Paranormal Romance?”

“Is that even a genre?”

“Yes,” Dan intones, just as PJ replies, “Judging from this…”

Chris bangs a fist on the table. Dan jumps, and covers it up by shuffling his chair. “How come I’ve only discovered this now?”

“Well, you know how people are with ghosts. Poor souls, they have nobody to support them.” PJ finishes his sentence with a fist stifling his mouth.

“Get out.”

-

Dan can’t decide if he’s stressed or not. This paper is due in tomorrow, and he still has several paragraphs to go, but the oscillating noise of the library and the murmured talk of PJ and Chris to his right are faded in his consciousness, creating an ambience that allows him to focus. He’s almost completely zoned out and at ease - leaning comfortably back into the calm background noise - pausing from writing every few minutes to stare into space. The deadline seems like ages away: the only real thing is the paper in front of him. Dan only notices that he’s tapping his pen on the table when Chris points it out to him.

One hour and ten minutes in, there’s a quiet knock of something on plastic. This doesn’t disturb them, but the strained “ _oww_ ” that follows does. All three of them turn their attention to the noise.

The librarian must have knocked his hip on the shelf, as he’s doubled over slightly, spare hand clutching his waist while the other somehow manages to balance the pile of books he’s carrying. It’s only then, with all their puzzled gazes on him, that he seems to notice their presence; he looks up, offers a clumsy smile and awkward laugh to match.

“Sorry.” He keeps the smile on his face, sheepish as he looks round at them, eyes finally resting on Dan, before straightening up and getting to work on his load.

Eyes awake like wildflowers, maybe, and bright and alive like reflection nebulae, spiral galaxies pirouetting in his irises - the ones Dan learnt about in school, blue and nursing star birth. The skin underneath is clear of bruises and wrinkles. Most of his profile is made up by his pale skin - clean shaven and free of obvious imperfections - and the synthetic black of his hair; Dan swirls the three colours together - sapphire, black, eburnean - with his index finger later on, when time is not clumsily pressed against the space between his shoulder blades. Light lacerates through one side of his face like dichotomy, the other dancing with shadow; one side of a smile pulled up in a deep crease; a slight fringe pushed to one side with clumsy fingers. The haircut is neat, probably, but the fringe splits apart and falls in his eyes. Dan has the urge to make him laugh again, just to revel in it; humanity and mirth can be beautiful, he is reminded right now.

As he makes his messy way around the space to return books to their places, Dan catches sight of a nametag that reads _Phil_. He tries hard not to follow him around, but when someone is hurrying around you, shadow playing on the surface before you, it is hard not to. Chris and PJ remain silent, too, watching Phil casually. Phil doesn’t trip once, which is admirable, though it’s unclear why Dan expected him to.

“So, about the body,” Chris suddenly says, obnoxiously loud. His intention is clear, and Dan scowls before slapping him on the upper arm, not sparing Chris a glance as he does so. Chris laughs before shutting up.

“Okay,” Phil exhales in relief, hastening back to the gap between the two shelves. He gives another smile as he says, drawing a cross in the air with his hands, “Nothing happened. Carry on.”

Dan’s paying particular attention to everything, now, to the ring of _phil_ in his head and Phil’s twisted ribbon of a smile. Sweet serendipity blooms mercilessly when Dan sees it.

And then Phil turns his back and leaves. After Chris cocks an eyebrow, him and PJ slump back into their seats, and, with a “So anyway,” return to their previous conversation. Dan frowns back down at his work, rereading the half-finished sentence he stopped on. Getting back into his work quickly enough, he finishes his paper and doesn’t give the event a second thought.

-

The all-encompassing grey cloud is matted fur suffocating the sky, the wind that whips the street is bustling and unforgiving, hurrying toward an unknown destination and bumping into the street-dwellers as it goes. It smells of autumn, of cooking pastries and spiced orange and petrichor; it’s been drizzling on and off all day, and Dan’s out while it’s dry. This is the type of weather he loves: blustery days with a breeze that picks up your mood, that creates new universes in your lungs and brain, so much so that you love each breath. It’s the day of wind-blown umbrellas and hair in your eyes, scudding clouds and raw winds, all of which remind you that you’re alive. When it’s raining, it’s not so perfect; when it’s overcast and dynamic but dry, on the other hand, that is what gets his mood up most.

He pushes the door of the WH Smiths open and slips inside, proceeds to unzip his jacket so it’s not choking his neck as he wanders to the back. The material is thin but warm enough, it just needs to be zipped up tight to prevent any prevailing wind.

He needs a new pen. And, if he comes out with some food, too, then nobody needs to know. He figures he can afford one pound for chocolate this once.

The shop is almost empty: the weather must have kept everyone inside. Dan tries desperately not to look the cashier’s way as he skulks up to the shelf. Choosing the cheapest pack of biros doesn’t take long at all, and within a minute he’s spinning on his heel and heading back for the door. The difference between the gloom of outside and the bright lights of inside is clear through the expanse of window.

Having paid and ready to leave, Dan catches sight of a familiar face, and his heart stutters. He hurries aside, out of the way of the tills, and surreptitiously watches them until they turn around again. And - yes, when they angle themselves slightly, he can clearly see the librarian from a week or so ago. _Shit_. He’s near the door, eyes poring over some book, foot tapping out a lingering rhythm. It’s likely that he doesn’t recognise Dan, and Dan’s not risking bumping into him in case he doesn’t - or, even, in case he _does._

(Apparently, this town attracts a lot of aesthetically attractive people. Which is plain unfair, if he’s being honest.)

With a curse, Dan weighs up his chances and decides to just go for it. Edging to his right to give himself the widest breadth between him and Phil, he strides forward. Phil’s still focused on the book, and Dan’s nearly past, his chest tight from not breathing - and it’s all going to plan until Phil abruptly takes a step backward. It’s a small one, but large enough to knock into Dan as Phil snaps his book shut.

“Fuck,” Dan exclaims just as Phil lets out a gasp of surprise as they clash, and Dan closes his eyes, sighs, before turning to face his fate.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve looked behind me,” Phil immediately apologises. Wearing dark jeans, he’s pressing his hands to the seams so Dan can't see the heart lines of his palms, and a Lord of The Rings shirt ducks behind a crimson jacket. His wrists are bare, his right leg crooked and positioned merely in front of his left, and the loose thread on the bottom of his shirt is not tugged at, instead tied into a string of knots. The way he's standing, the air of not knowing what to do with himself, constructs acute sides that draw him out of the background and into the fore.

“It’s fine,” Dan dismisses, shoulders hunched.

“As long as you’re okay - wait.” Phil squints his eyes, inclines his head. “Don’t I know you?”

Dan shrugs and keeps his lips shut.

“Oh, I saw you at the library a few days ago, didn’t I?” Phil realises aloud.

Dan blinks. If he pretends to scan his memory, he could buy himself a few more seconds...“That’s right, yeah, you did. I didn’t recognise you at first, sorry,” Dan lies. Phil nods, offering a mellow smile in greeting.

“It’s fine, I didn’t recognise you either.” Phil lets out a short laugh. It sounds a bit like a lie, but Dan can’t exactly complain. The idea that they both ignored each other for the same reasons is laughable at least.

He feels the urge to introduce himself, so sticks out a hand and says, “Dan.”

Shaking the proffered hand, Phil replies, “I know. Wait.” He stops himself and laughs, shoulders shaking slightly, “That sounds weird. Your friends can have really loud voices when they want, that’s all. I promise I’m not a stalker.”

“Okay...” Dan replies, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, while we’re on that, I know your name, too. But you have a name tag, so I think it’s sufficiently less weird.”

“I told you! I just overheard you and your friends!”

“Eavesdropping is a sin, Phil.”

“But aren’t we both a bit creepy? Can’t we agree on that?” Phil persuades.

“No.”

“ _Dan_.”

They’ve barely been talking five minutes, Dan’s not sure what they can get away with. “I must admit that this isn’t the standard way I meet people.”

“Exactly,” Phil agrees. “Should we start over?”

Dan huffs, “Fine.”

“Hi, I’m Phil, nice to meet you. Sorry I stepped into you.”

“Hi, I’m Dan. And, sorry to hurry things along,” he adds, feeling guilty for what he’s about to say, but knowing that the awkwardness of the situation is setting his nerves alight, “but I really ought to be going…” Dan points his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the door, and Phil nods in understanding.

“Oh, of course. See you around, then.”

“See you around.”

The wind slams the door shut behind Dan, and he fights against the gust to pull his jacket back around him. Head bowed, he clutches onto his plastic bag as he heads down the street.

Well. That was weird.

-

“You know that librarian guy who interrupted us the other day?” Dan says out of nowhere, lolling on the floor and tilting his head back on the mattress to look at Chris and PJ.

“Yes,” PJ answers simply.

“I saw him in town the other day. And I think we both ignored each other. But then we bumped into each other anyway.” Dan’s forehead creases as he recounts it, voice slow and distant.

“It must be love. The Gods have sent an omen.”

Chris gets a pillow to the face for his efforts.

-

Dan decides to get a drink before walking under risk of rain to the library. He stuffs his cold hands deeper into his pockets as he racks his brain to remember the way to the vending machine. Each cream corridor looks the same, and Dan can’t be expected to _remember_ where PJ and Chris take him, surely.

To his unease, there’s someone using it when he gets there. Blonde hair falls down her back and sides, with washed out pink ends curling, and pink lip gloss sticks to her easy smile. A cardigan is draped over her shoulders; she smiles up at Dan when he stands to her side. Soft, bubbly and happy, she’s the perfect representation of hospitality.

“Stocking up?” He realises it’s him who speaks as the fifth coke bottle falls to the bottom. She laughs.

“Well…” She picks it up and somehow manages to juggle the collection of goods. “You got me.”

“Pringles,” he nods approvingly, feeling hostility melt and the threat leave, “Good choice.”

“Hi, I’m Louise, and my skills include fitting my hand in a Pringles tube.” She holds out her hand, and Dan shakes it, laughing, slightly in disbelief.

“Was that your version of an icebreaker?”

“I’d call it a friend-pick-up-line. Pleased to use it for the pleasure of your acquaintance, ah…”

“Dan.”

“Dan.” Smiling, she seems to study him. “I bet you’ve had tonnes of people tell you it’s a lovely name? Because it is, I mean.”

“I have, yes.”

“Well, to break tradition and all, I will say it’s a horrible name. But the fringe is nice. Keep the fringe. Now, I must dash. People to ignore, crisps to eat.”

“I understand.” He’s laughing again. And, strangers aren’t his forte, nor is conversation and meeting new people, but - he’s not comfortable, not completely, but this is more at ease than he’s been before. “I guess I’ll see you…?”

“At a vending machine near you, yes.” Louise laughs, “I wouldn’t deny myself the joy. Bye!”

“See you.” Dan watches as she walks off, selects his own drink, and he braves the weather with more of a spring in his step than before.

Rain drowns the air, biting sideways. Dan tuts in annoyance as he pulls the hood of his waterproof up. The plastic rustles as he moves; it obscures his vision and contorts the sound of the traffic. Several times he nearly bumps into people, jumping to the side at the last minute. The weather is a mundane part of Britain, and fits perfectly with the concrete persona that pertains to the university; even so, Dan swears under his breath as the droplets come faster and in bursts, wheedling their way under the fabric. He shifts, trying to regain some warmth.

The library is as dull as the other stores in this weather, the light yellow paint of its front deadened to off-white. The way the sound travels inside is affected by the rain that hems them in, as is always the custom with this kind of downpour; more like stains of sound than constants, the meek roar of children leaks from one corner, the tap of computer keys barraging the hollow space between four walls. Footprints fade into the carpet as he walks forward.

He actually brought work, this time, and he pulls the bustling paper out of his messenger bag.

He doesn’t see Phil this time. As he looks around the library one last time before pushing the door open, he frowns and asks after why that is something he consciously noticed. Why should he really care?

-

Though they don’t meet that time, they do happen upon each other during Dan’s weekly trips to the library. The most they do is nod at each other; Phil will sometimes raise his eyebrows or grin, and sometimes Dan can summon up a small wave. But it’s all out of courtesy, really - out of the knowledge that they can’t really ignore each other, now. Dan stays out of Phil’s way, and Phil stays out of Dan’s. Neither of them are offended by this silent agreement.

-

Louise wants to introduce him to this friend of hers, who, in her words, is funny, kind, and frankly adorable. Meeting over coffee is her plan, and Dan is really not convinced.

“Have you seen me around new people? I’m like a goose. A goose who’s trying to fly but can’t - most probably with some litter on its beak.”

“That’s not true,” Louise disagrees, waving it away with her hand. “Is it?”

Dan just stares her down.

“Okay, well. As I said, he’s so kind and lovely. Smile could grow flowers, probably.” She risks a look at Dan, who looks up from his work and lets his pen go limp in his hand.

“Are you trying to set me up? Is this what this is?”

“No!”

“Do you think I’m lonely, Louise?”

“No!”

“Then why are you…?”

“I just think you two would get on. If I’m honest, we were going to meet up _anyway_ , and I remembered about you. I’ve already checked with him and he’s happy for you to tag along.”

“Well that’s brilliant.”

“A bit of enthusiasm wouldn’t go amiss, you know. Like, a ‘Thanks Louise!’”

“What did you tell him? That I was lonely and friendless?”

“No.”

“You couldn’t sound less convincing.”

“I don’t think you’d be happy with what I said…” she explains, and Dan glares at her, “but I didn’t say that. It was all good stuff.”

Dan keeps glaring.

“Promise.”

“What _did_ you say?”

“I...can’t remember.”

Dan sighs, rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

Louise bows her head in guilt getting back to business, “Just turn up, yeah? He’s not going to kill you. He _wants_ to meet you, how weird is that?”

“Ouch, you’re really dishing out the insults today.”

“Just turn up at Starbucks at six tomorrow, yeah? I’ll wait for you. And I’ll hold your hand if you need.”

Dan’s still not convinced. But Louise wheedles her way into his head, even uses texts to persuade him once she’s left, and Dan won’t be able to cope with the guilt and cliffhanger he’ll be left with if he doesn’t turn up. So, the next day, he finds himself working his way to the meeting place, and goes with it. He has nothing better to do.

As promised, Louise is waiting for him outside. She’s leant against the window, playing absently with a strand of hair. Straightening when she spots him, she waves him over, smiles and exclaims, “Dan!”

“Um, hi,” he replies, giving in to the hug she offers him.

“You actually came!”

“It would appear so.”

“Gotta be honest, I wasn’t expecting you’d show.”

“Your faith in me is what keeps me going.”

“Right, shut up,” she chastises, shoves him before holding open the shop door. “Best behaviour, don’t want to scare him away.”

“ _He_ is a grown man.”

“You’re all my kids.”

Condensation rife on the windows and steam hanging from the ceiling, the Starbucks may not be incredibly busy, but it certainly fills the quota: the smell of coffee powers its veins, the clash of mugs and saucers is its heartbeat. Dan pauses inside the door and scans around, blindly takes in bags and coats and side profiles, expels them from his head as quickly.

“What am I looking for?”

“He’s over there.” Louise points to a far corner. From what Dan can see, he’s bent over some work; his hair hangs down, away from his forehead, and his ankles are tucked away under his chair. Something stirs in his subconscious, but Dan dismisses it as nerves as he trails after Louise.

He’s engrossed in whatever he’s writing, so Louise announces their arrival, “Dan, meet Phil, Phil, meet Dan,” with her quintessential enthusiasm.

Dan has never believed in fate, and coincidences have always been his enemy, so there was no way in hell that he was going to be prepared for this. That’s what the recognition was earlier, and Dan now has no clue what to say.

Phil raises his head with a pre-made smile. His mouth hangs open, ready to greet this new stranger, but the composed look of amity crumples into recognition. His widened eyes can’t seem to leave Dan, and Dan shifts on the spot.

“Um.” With both expecting sets of eyes on him, Dan feels under pressure to say something, but comes up speechless.

“We’ve already met,” Phil explains, leans back in his chair with his pen still poised to write. His eyes flicker in amusement, and off this Dan finds confidence and acknowledges, “Hello again.” They’re still staring at each other, Dan’s forehead creased and lips twitching in entertained bafflement.

“Well I never,” Louise says. She looks between them. “Really?”

“Kind of,” Dan replies, at the same time as Phil says, “Briefly.”

She laughs in disbelief. “Well, in that case.” She plonks her bag and coat down on the ground. “I can leave you two to it while I go order.”

Dan begins, “Can you get me a -” but is cut off.

“Oh, I already got you a drink.” Phil looks up, sheepish. “I, uh, Louise told me your order.”

“But you didn’t get _me_ one?” Louise asks, eyebrow raised.

“Nope.”

“Suit yourself.”

With Louise now gone, Dan exhales through his mouth and shakes his head.

“So…”

“So,” Phil repeats, laughs.

“Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem. I stole your napkin, by the way.”

“You - why?”

“I needed to note something down quickly. Come on, sit down. This isn’t good for my neck,” Phil prompts, kicks out the chair next to him. Just like Dan’s own, his trousers are tugged down low at his ankles to accommodate his long legs, but still a flash of brightly coloured socks shows through.

Sitting down, Dan questions, “Why couldn’t you use your own?”

“I already used that to mop up my spillage.” Phil waves the sopping napkin across his body.

Dan raises his eyebrows, huffs a laugh, “Of course you did.”

“Hey, this is a judgement free zone.”

“Whatever you say, Captain Space-Coat.” Dan nods to the grey coat slung over Phil’s chair and proceeds to rest his head on his palms. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me neither. I wasn’t expecting it at all.”

“I should’ve guessed it would.”

“Louise even told me your name. _I_ should have guessed.”

“We both should’ve seen this coming, considering,” Dan compromises.

Phil nods. “We just can’t get rid of each other.”

“Try as I might, I just can’t escape you.”

“I’ve considered a restraining order.”

“I guess we can’t ignore each other any longer.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Dan meets his eyes.

When Louise returns at this moment, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“I’m back,” she announces from behind, and he starts; a hand flies to his heart and he swats at her, “Stop doing that!”

“Did I scare you?” she laughs.

“Your _face_ ,” Phil adds.

“Fuck off.”

“Manners, Dan.”

“Okay, Mum.” He pulls a face.

“That’s no way to talk to your mother,” Phil chides, and Dan is tempted to push the boundaries of politeness to strangers.

“So you’re getting on well, I see.” Louise slips into her own seat, stirs her drink, and brings it to her mouth. “I was right about that, then.”

“We hate each other.” They both say this at the same time, and look to each other in confusion.

Louise raises her eyebrows. (Dan wishes she’d stop doing that.) “Told you so.”

The rest of the hour passes easily, in anecdotes and jokes and Dan kicking at Phil’s shin under the table when he takes a dig at Dan. Dan gets his own back - he ensures that.

Phil sporadically stops to note something else down ( _how many things do you need to remember, Phil, jesus_ ) and Dan falls silent, watching and waiting while Louise continues talking. He wraps midnight around his thumb and forefinger, ink stains in smudged train-tracks on his wrist and fingers and palms. They increase in quantity the more writing he’s done, with more blotches smearing across the napkin. Every so often, he lifts his left hand to the bridge of his nose, returns it to the table top without doing anything.

They leave with the understanding that they will undoubtedly see each other around town - _and maybe you’ll actually talk to me this time_ , Phil jibes - Louise practically preening herself.

“Are you glad you turned up, then?”

“Not at all.”

Breath clouding in front of their faces, they huddle closer together as they traipse across the cracked ice of puddles. It’s an unusually cold day for late September.

“Oh, come on.”

“No way. Your ego is way too big as it is.” Dan looks down to her from the corner of his eye, grinning.

“So you _are_ glad?”

“I said nothing.”

-

The next morning, Dan wakes thinking of the aftertaste his nightmare has left. He doesn’t experience his dreams often, and when he does, he doesn’t remember them very well. This is the case here. All he’s left with is apprehension weighing him down. The dream itself, the experience that is the object of his fear, is just a blurred shadow.

Purples and blues skid under his eyes. Fatigue drags him down, and he’s not up to do anything today, not really: he feels empty and desiccated and Not Right. He’s so, so tired.

The world outside is baring fangs, white bone shining in the sunlight. The sky is a clear, forget-me-not blue. It may look sunny and bright, but condensation clogs his windows, while frost seals in the freezing ground. It is yet another reason to hide inside.

Dan barely escapes to his lectures. The shadow and the logy follow him as he goes, and the time spent outside and in the university are as blurred as the nightmare he can’t remember. It’s just one foot after the other, all the way into town, coat pulled tight and zipped up to the collar, hair neglected in unwieldy masses of curls. Once the lecture ends, Dan squints down at the page of notes, and can barely remember writing a single one.

Chris and PJ stick with him and try to boost his spirit. They ramble about anything, ask about the book Dan is reading, and pick at strings of conversation until they make minor seven chords. PJ wakes him up in the mornings and practically carries him to classes. Dan wouldn’t be able to stay awake if not for the coffee Chris pours down his throat. And he’s grateful: they never ask for an explanation, and that’s good, because he doesn’t have one to give.

He doesn’t get to the library that week. Or the next, because it seems like being a zombie for a week means tonnes of work to catch up on.

-

The mood passes, as all moods do. After these two weeks, he’s up and running again, on his way to the library with just his phone and iPod in his pocket.

Once at the library, Dan nods at Phil before locating a free spot. He’s in the fiction section, so he runs his fingers along the books until he settles on a novel titled “The Humans” - _aliens, nice_ \- and settles down on one of the chairs, legs stretched and hooked at the ankle in front of him.

He reads for what must be an hour, he figures - it’s impossible to tell, as his wrists are characteristically bare, and the library wall sports no clock. He’s changed positions about ten times by now; his right leg is numb and his neck will ache in the morning. With the sky darkening to a navy outside, he considers leaving. Phil’s had an hour to come and talk to him - Dan’s taken the first step and actually turned up. If he’s missed the chance, then that’s tough. Deliberation hounds him for a few moments, before his want to befriend Phil takes charge, and his embarrassment at that must be thrown to the wind. Though, he does need to change books, as a minimum. The space “ _The Humans”_ occupied previously is just behind him, just more than an arm’s length away. If he just leans back on this chair, he could reach it…

The chair tilts back onto three legs, two, one, under his shifted weight, until only his dug-in heels are keeping it balanced at all. The book is nosing its spine against the gap, and he pushes just a little farther, lifts his arm a degree up, to slot it in -

The chair falls away beneath him.

It was inevitable. Of course it was: the stunt was dumb as it was, and luck has never been on Dan’s side. Now his arse has to pay the price.

There’s an awful thud as his body hits the floor, followed by an embarrassingly loud crash as the chair over balances and falls onto the library floor. The legs vibrate from impact: _vvvrring_. Dan winces, stays where he is on the floor and waits for the pain to subside. Eyeing the mess he’s left in his wake - the chair, the book, his legs up in the air - he lets his head fall back onto the ground. Through laughter, he groans at his own stupidity.

“Are you okay?”

_Fuck this._

Phil’s standing at the entrance to the cubby hole. Though the question is one of care, and though he’s covering his mouth with his hand, his voice is quivering, saccharine, with laughter, and his hand is probably only there to hold it in.

Luckily for Dan, the pain has already left him, so he answers, “Yes,” and throws a hand in front of his eyes.

Phil’s face collapses at the sight of Dan’s demise, shoulders shaking freely now as his chest rises and falls with peels of laughter. “Oh my _God._ ”

“Don’t look at my shame,” Dan implores.

“I will look at your shame.”

“Did you see the whole thing?” Dan asks, regretting the answer he knows is about to arrive.

“ _Yes_.” The word is stressed through Phil’s utter amusement.

“Oh my fucking -” Dan exclaims, face blotched red. “The _whole_ thing?”

“The whole thing,” Phil confirms apologetically. “I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why does this always happen to me?”

“Because you try stupid stunts like that.”

“It does keep happening. Chairs fucking hate me.”

“The rise of the furniture. They’ll find you, Dan, and they’ll take you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You really should have learnt by now,” Phil says, takes a step forward. “Do you need a hand?”

Dan peeks out of one eye. “The judgement is already done, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Phil says ruefully. “Now get your legs out of my face and get up.” His hand is outstretched, and after looking between it and Phil, Dan takes it and pulls himself up.

“I feel like we keep meeting in weird ways.”

“We do,” Phil agrees. “This was only to be expected,” he continues, waving a hand at the carnage. His slip knocked another pile off the shelf.

Dan bends down to pick up his book and right the chair, twisting around to bitterly say, “You can stop smiling now. Your jaw must ache.”

“It does,” Phil confesses, kneeling down beside Dan and gathering the books together. “But this is so funny.”

“Shut up,” Dan says, pokes him with one of the books he’s collected.

“Watch it, that’s library property.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“You should. If you mess with them, you mess with me.”

Dan can’t help but snigger, “Really? Oh, I don’t want to do that.” Gradually, using the shelf for support, he hauls himself back up to standing. After returning all the books to their rightful places, he takes a few steps and announces, “I’m leaving now.”

“No, Dan, help me up?” Phil begs.

“No, no way. You insulted me.”

Phil pouts, and, kneeling with his hands in his lap, he sinks down lower. “ _Dan._ ”

“No.”

“Come back.”

Dan freezes on the spot. He makes a show of rolling his eyes and giving a grumble as he turns, and Phil looks up at him with imploring eyes.

“Are you actually stuck?”

Phil nods, but Dan knows he’s lying.

“If you’re still like that when I come back tomorrow, I won’t be surprised, to be honest.”

And he gives a small wave as he leaves.

-

“I knew you’d be alright,” Dan says the next day, back at the library with Phil standing by one of the bookshelves. After some clumsy shuffling of his seat, Dan manages to face Phil properly.

“I am now,” Phil says, arms crossed and one leg bouncing to silent music, “But I wasn’t.”

“How so?” Dan makes it clear he isn’t invested in this tale.

“I was on that floor for four hours before Freya finally found me.”

“Inspirational.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a terrible liar. I’ve known you for two seconds and I know you’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Phil goes to lean on the shelf behind him, but decides better of it and pulls back.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Everyone here deserves to live another day,” Dan teases, and Phil ignores him, goes on to say, “You’re just a very cynical person.”

“Okay, fine. Point is, I saw you stand up the second I left.”

“Oh.” Phil contorts his face into a false pout, shoulders slumping.

Dan laughs, “So as I was saying, I knew you’d be alright.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Phil picks the chair next to Dan and takes a seat, draws it up to the table and bashes his knee on the underside of the wood. “ _Ow._ ”

“You just don’t get a break, do you?”

“At least I don’t fall off chairs.”

“Oi. That was for a good cause. You’re just clumsy.”

“Where were you the last few weeks, by the way? I didn’t get to ask yesterday: our meeting was so fleeting,” he elaborates with added flamboyance.

“Just busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Not wanting to do anything. I was….just really tired, really.”

“I get that,” Phil says, bumps their shoulders together. “As long as some days you’re busy being happy.”

“Lame.”

“It’s not, it’s true, and you know it.”

Dan pauses. “Alright.”

Phil’s looking over his shoulder, at the work Dan has actually managed to bring this time; Dan finds a spot on the table and focuses on it.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Dan asks after a second, turning to frown at Phil.

“This is working.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, you should be honoured.”

“I have no idea how many innocent civilians you’ve kidnapped.”

“I can assure you, it’s none.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Phil responds by digging his elbow into Dan’s side. Dan’s retort is to poke at the flesh just above Phil’s waist; Phil twists away, shaking his head. _No._

“So you take law?”

“Yup. Are you done reading my work?” he returns.

“I wasn’t!” Phil objects. “Okay. Maybe I was,” he confesses, “but not all of it. Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s interesting. I’m adapting.” Dan shuffles the papers, not knowing who he’s trying to fool.

Phil’s lips curl into a corkscrew. “I hated my course when I first started, even though I love English. It’ll get there.”

“Okay...Thanks.”

“No problem.” Phil smiles too wide, like a liar who thinks life is just a myth, and Dan goes _fuck it,_ smiles even wider.

They continue to chat for ten minutes before Phil has to leave, but he comes back a few times over the course of an hour; distracting Dan with pointless rambles and jokes - _lame_ jokes, Dan doesn’t hesitate to point out. When he says goodbye, he feels accomplished with the knowledge that they’ve had a proper conversation.

-

Fourth visit in, the rain is coming down thick and fast before Dan’s eyes. The drops are visible spears of freezing water, dousing the sky above with gulches of thunderous grey. Water sticks to his eyelashes and the world around him droops into surreality as browns and blacks and navys churn together.

Clothes weighed dark with water and his fists balled, Dan makes it to the library in one piece. The warmth and looming roof, even the cries of the children, are welcome. He stops near the entrance with the hopes of drying off soon enough, face tilted up to the heater that’s exuding waves of hot air.

“Did you get wet?” asks a very dry, quite smug Phil, appearing from behind one of the bookshelves.

“A bit,” Dan grumbles. “It’s a good job I didn’t bring any work today.”

Phil’s expression turns into one of concern. “Do you need me to get anything for you? I’m sure I can find something to pose as a towel?”

“No, I’ll be okay,” Dan replies, smiling up at him as he lifts one arm. The fabric squelches, and he cringes.

“Actually,” he says to Phil’s retreating figure, “I, er, wouldn’t mind a dry coat? Or something.”

Phil grins, happy to help, and tells him, “I’ll go grab mine.”

“Oh, you don’t have to -”

“It’s nothing,” Phil waves him off. “You stay right there, don’t move.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

True to his word, Phil returns moments later with his coat in hand, and once Dan has shrugged his own off - wrinkling his nose at the sensation on his skin caused by the soaked fabric - they swap, Phil taking Dan’s and laying the other on Dan’s shoulders. “I’ll go pop this on a radiator somewhere.” When he lifts it up as a prop, water drips down onto the carpet. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else? We have a secret coffee maker out back.”

“Whose idea was that?”

“Not mine, actually. So, do you?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” He zips up Phil’s coat, folds his arms over his chest. “See?”

“Okay then. See you soon.”

-

“Spoilers,” is how Phil enters Dan’s head eleven minutes later, five books hooked under one arm as he nods at Dan’s reading material. “But -”

“Go away.”

“I’ve read it before, they -”

“Don’t you dare,” Dan warns, a laugh betraying him as he twists around and swats Phil away, the other dodging swiftly.

There’s something about the way his smile is so splitting that his vision blurs, the books and the rain-spilt windows and Phil all with unfocused edges, that makes his heart jolt.

-

As he’s leaving, he bumps into Phil once more. His coat is dry and his hood is up; Phil’s coat has been left at reception.

“Off already?” Phil says as he reaches Dan. One trouser leg has ridden higher up his leg, while both of his sweater’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows.

“Your coat’s over there,” Dan answers. Phil nods, seeming breathless.

“The rain’s stopped,” he notes. Dan looks behind him even though he already knows what he will see.

“I’m gonna take my chances.”

“See you soon, then.”

Dan can still remember the smell of Phil’s coat, the rhythm of his breathing by his side, and the tickle of the fur hood against his taut jawline. All three rest in the lump at the back of his throat. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

Dan turns to leave. He’s standing at the doorway, now. Taking a step.

“Oh, and Dan?”

“Hm?”

Phil’s hand travels to the back of his neck as he suggests, “You should bring your friends sometime. I’d love to meet them.” _And sometimes you look so lonely and I don’t like seeing you like that_ is added in the pattern of his fingers carding through his fringe.

Faint smiles are white lies while the wind starts to churn against him, and he says, “I’ll ask them. Bye, Phil.”


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gang meet phil

Chris and PJ eagerly agree to Phil’s proposition, commenting that they’ll finally get to meet the stranger Dan keeps running off with. (“ _That’s not accurate at all. No running is involved.”_ ) And so, within a few days, they’re back at the library, the autumn sun beating down on their backs as they make their way.

For some reason, Dan is apprehensive about the situation. There’s no reason why he should be, and yet this feels like a decisive situation: if Chris, PJ and Phil don’t get along, that will mean something. That, on its own, is fair enough. But it’s not just that. It’s as if Chris and PJ’s approval will mean a lot in regards to Phil and his friendship; or, as though Phil has been this closely kept secret. It’s not clear, either way, but it’s a reason that holds importance in its cupped hands - an importance larger than Dan had reckoned with. (They’ve only talked properly, what, seven times? It’s been seven times.)

This time they claim bean bags, scattered at close vertices with their legs splayed out. It resembles polaroids blurred by shaking hands. The dynamic material doesn’t offer much comfort for their tiresome limbs, and PJ has to balance his assignment on one knee, but they make it work. PJ drags one more bean bag over and drops it beside Dan. The beans rattle as they settle, and Dan stares at it with a question drawn between his brow.

“For Phil,” PJ explains, looking at him as if he should have guessed. Dan just wasn’t expecting them to think so much of this.

Five minutes later Phil arrives, hovering at the entrance with hands glued into fists. Dan, with his back to him, doesn’t realise his presence until PJ looks to Phil, then to Dan, prompting him with flickering eyes and raised eyebrows. Dan’s mouth forms an “O” and he turns around.

“Hey,” he greets, and Phil exhales. “Come in, then.”

“Okay.” He takes several steps, until his toes are nudging at Dan’s seat. “Hi,” he says to Chris and PJ, uncertain, kind. The way Chris glares coldly back, eyes lingering, is a noose at Dan’s neck until he cracks a toothy grin. “I’m joking,” Chris reassures him, though he said nothing, “I’m Chris, and this is PJ. I like your shirt.”

The shirt in question bears a space pun, a quip about the space bar and caps lock and “negative space” and it makes Dan smile.

“Thank you.”

“Take a seat.”

“Please,” PJ adds, looking up from his stack of worn-edged pages to smile up at Phil. “Chris forgets his manners.” At that, Chris scoffs and crosses his arms.

Phil laughs, relieved and at ease as his legs cross over each other when he sits, palms cupped over each knee. “I’m Phil, if you didn’t know.”

“We did know,” PJ answers kindly.

“We’ve heard all about you.”

“That’s not true,” Dan mutters. Next, louder, to Phil, “That’s not true.”

“Dan doesn’t shut up about you.”

“That’s also not true.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Phil.” PJ ignores Chris and Dan’s arguing, poking into the hollow of his cheek with his pen as he ponders over his work.

“I’m really honoured, Dan,” Phil says to him. He looks as if he is about to add something else, but doesn’t, and he lays the words to rest on the ground beside him.

“There’s no reason to be, as it’s not true,” Dan replies, shooting a glare Chris’ way. Chris just grins wide and Phil breaths a laugh, moving one leg out in front of him. “Chris is a liar.”

“How did you guys meet, anyway?” PJ inquires. His pen gesturing between the pair of them, he continues to play with it.

“Are you actually going to write with that, Peej?”

“Shh, Chris, it’s all in the planning.”

Dan imagines Phil’s attention perks at the mention of writing, but he ignores it, busying himself with the task of sending Phil the message of _don’t you dare_ through desperate mouthing and shaking of his head. Dan’s efforts are in vain, and Phil happily recounts the series of events - it’s weird to hear it from the other point of view, he admits, and at times he just wants to swear at his past self.

“And when I went to talk to him in the library,” Phil is saying, “He fell off his chair -”

“No!” Dan interrupts. “Don’t talk about that!”

“Oh my God, how did he manage that? Tell me, tell me,” Chris says.

“Well he -” Phil can’t finish because of the hand clamped over his mouth, and his eyes go wide as he tries to shake Dan off.

“Leave Phil alone, Dan,” PJ chastises, rolls his eyes. His pen slips on the paper and he curses. “He’s being honest.”

“It’s all irrelevant,” Dan grumbles, but lets Phil go.

“Did you say something about writing, PJ?” Phil asks.

With the window just above them - the glass splinters with the September sun - their shadows all haphazardly intersect on the carpet between them.

“Yeah. I’ve got to finish this assignment by tomorrow.” He sighs.

“You’re doing creative writing?” Phil continues, interest growing as his neck cranes longer to eye PJ’s page.

Dan notes his body language and tells the others, “He does that. Just reads other people’s work. You’ll get used to it.”

“Yeah, I’m taking Creative Writing for my degree,” PJ replies as Phil pushes Dan’s head away, saying “Shut up.”

“Of course he is,” Chris adds. “PJ is, like, the most creative person ever.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” PJ says, with his pen pointed at Chris.

“He’s also very humble,” Dan says.

“I took writing too, so if you ever need any help, I’d be happy to dispense my knowledge.”

“I have no clue what to do with this damn short story.”

“If you have no inspiration, there’s no point writing…” Phil begins. He adds, hands out in front of him, “That’s not to say you shouldn’t do it. You should just...leave it. For a while. Mind maps are your friends.”

PJ processes Phil’s words with a glance back at his paper. “Are you telling me I don’t have to do work?”

“No. But, effectively, yes.”

PJ turns to Dan. “I like him. We can keep him.” When they all smile and chat together another piece falls into place, relief relaxes Dan’s head.

“You really like using that fucking pen.”

Pen in hand, PJ lowers his arm, and replies, “I don’t know what you mean, Chris.”

-

“Dragons are good,” Phil says. He’s now sat with one knee up, his arm slung over it. “Big, majestic.”

In the middle of the circle, Dan’s and PJ’s legs are crossed at the ankle, with PJ’s on top. Dan wriggles his leg out from underneath and places it on top. The game has been going on for a few minutes, now, and  the others have left them to it, save from one eye roll from Phil.

“If I were a dragon, I’d hoard Fall Out Boy CDs,” Dan tells them.

Chris says, “I prefer unicorns, you know,” and snatches PJ’s pen out of his hand, starts to balance it on his finger tip.

“Unicorns represent self belief,” PJ says, taking his pen back, “because they have to believe in themselves. No one else does.”

“That’s...actually really sad. Thanks, PJ.”

“Anytime.”

-

The sunlight imbues whatever it can take. Everyone’s eyes turn verdigris in it, flash when they look to Dan. He finds himself shrinking back away from it.

When they talk, it is good, for Dan is left content, stripped free of the feeling that everything he says must be ambrosia perfect. The conversation is reckless and the others bend it over their elbows so that it fits what they want, it is reckless and where everything exists in its own right. Phil owns too many scented candles, reads while making dinner, and can count up to thirteen in Elvish; PJ gives colours personalities when he’s bored and Chris has a small but diligent collection of plaited drink straws. When Phil laughs it sounds like the gems inside his chest are clattering about, tugging mildly at something in Dan’s ribs and at the corners of his mouth. The three of them are the excuse Dan has for ignoring the weights on his shoulders. Phil disappears every so often to do a quick job - he doesn’t stand up, he jumps up - but he returns soon enough, assuring them that he's fine talking to them. The conversation returns to its normal pace quickly, and it’s different to what Dan's used to. But it's so much better.

And, when they talk, it is bad. Not the conversation, not the people, but he becomes bad. Withdrawn and lacking self confidence, he goes quiet; they are upbeat and bold and interesting, and he is not sure how he ended up here, as the millions of blank space between the alpha and beta of Cassiopeia. There is awe and there is the crushing fear that it sends to his head, the pressure rushing back because there is none - _what if he fucks this all up?_ Ruby is the colour of his whitlows, livid and exsanguinated, and this is what he entertains himself with. But then Phil nudges him, sends him a reassuring smile; Dan smiles back and begs for the dark clouds to run away.

Time caves away from them, and the rubble shimmers like glitter.

“We’d better be going soon.” PJ pulls the shirt of his flannel back over his watch.

“Can you hang back a second?” Phil asks him, already standing. He explains, “I’ve just got to go and grab something for Dan.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“We have time,” PJ confirms. “Fly like the wind.”

Phil is back within a minute, a book clasped between his hands.

“Hi.”

“Hello again,” Dan replies, eyeing up what he can see of the cover. “It’s been a while.”

“You should really read this.” Phil doesn’t put it off, and it could be a threat, what with his relentless stare and wide smile, if not for the way Dan smiles back. Handing it over, he witters on as Dan studies the cover - monochrome with a dash of red; “It’s called The Night Circus. I read it and really enjoyed it, so I thought I’d recommend it to you. I hope you like it. It’s, uh, my copy, so you can take all the time you need.”

“You brought this in? For me?”

“Sure, why not? You’ll look after it, right?”

“Of course.”

“I trust you.” Phil nods, hands hooked in his pockets, cracks a smile.

“Thank you so much.”

Dan isn’t sure if he initiates the hug that follows. But he must raise his arms as he smiles back, he must do _something_ , because Phil hugs him and people don’t do that to say _you’re welcome_ , not as far as Dan knows.

There is something about having someone pressed to your chest, arms looped around you like silver ribbons, that calms you down, and he’s never been sure why. Perhaps beating hearts can sense each other, or maybe there are magnets behind people’s sternums, treasured amongst the precious gems and fluttering soul. There is something in this holding on that makes you forget about the letting go. There is protection. It feels like this solace could last for eternity.

There must be a scientific reason for why his frenzied heart stills at the press of body heat to his chest.

Rubbing Dan’s back once, Phil retracts his tender form and looks around at them all. “I’ll see you all soon, then.”

They say their goodbyes, shaking out their numb limbs and recovering from dizziness as all the blood rushes out of their heads. Dan has to hold onto PJ’s shoulder as he starts to keel over, and says “I am the epitome of health and fitness.”

“You ready now?”

“Ugh. Yes.”

“Then get off my shoulder.”

Phil is shaking his head, a slight smile cracking the facade. “Don’t forget your book.”

Dan lifts it up to show him, saying, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

And with that they leave.

-

The next day, Dan arrives at the library late in the day, and stays there even later into the evening - right until closing time.

A printed rucksack slung over his shoulder, Phil appears whilst Dan is packing away his things, and asks, “Are you going anywhere tonight?”

“It’s a Thursday.” His folder won’t fit in the bag, and Dan doesn’t look up as he wriggles it in.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.” Dan looks up. Phil’s eyes go to the back of his head.

“Are you busy? Got anything you need to rush home to, or whatever?”

“No...Why?”

“We can walk together, if you’d like. You live near the university, right?”

Straightening up, Dan fixes his hair as he replies, “In that direction, yeah.”

“Same here. So, do you want to walk together?”

Truthfully, it does not take Dan long at all to come to a decision. “Sure, sounds good.”

Phil says “Great,” like it’s a relief, and nods towards the exit. Dan follows his lead, trudging towards the exit. The shelves are all deserted, now, a different kind of silence hanging down in stripes from the ceiling: a kind which is a lack, not a choice, terrifyingly hollow.

“What, did you really think I’d say no?” Dan asks as they make their way to the front.

“I had no idea what you’d say,” Phil replies.

“Right.”

Phil’s hand leaves a frosted print of condensation on the door when he pushes it open; a rush of cool air flows in. Outside, the air is a foggy cloud of amber lights, scuttling leaves littering the pavement; the moon is an afterthought, printed behind the smog. The streetlights are the only stars out tonight.

They listen to the dual-tone of their ambling footfalls until the courage is found to speak.

Phil asks him about The Night Circus - _I want to live there, thanks for that, Phil_ \- and his course and whether he’s found the ninety nine pence store yet. Dan asks about life at the library, and laughs when Phil trips over a protruding slab in the pavement.

“You’re okay, so I’m allowed to laugh,” Dan says as Phil shoots him a look.

“I feel like a ninja,” Phil announces later on, with his body disappearing into the shadow and hands winding around absent-minded circles as he talks.

“You fell over a pavement. A _pavement_.”

“Shh.”

“You can’t be sneaky, Phil. I was right next to you, I saw it.”

“SHHH.”

“Phil, you - no, never mind, I give up.”

Their words are visible in the steam that clogs the air before them, lingering before evanescing. When it gets to it, Dan points out the way to go to get to his house, his steps dragging further behind.

“Are you cold?” Phil asks.

“No,” Dan replies, but his sleeves are pulled tightly down over his hands, arms crossed over his front.

“You could walk faster, that would warm you up.”

“I’m too tired for that.”

Dan hovers outside his house. He steps between feet, places a smile between his two lifted shoulders. “This is me.”

Phil nods. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Sure.” Dan begrudgingly removes one arm from his confined space of heat to open the gate, fumbling with the latch. Finally, it unlocks, and he pushes it open - the bottom of the wood grates along the concrete.

“Before you go,” Phil stops him, “I was wondering if maybe we could go for a coffee some time? Like, tomorrow?”

Dan stares at him. His hand still rests on the gate.

“I just thought it would be better than my work. You don’t have to, of course,” Phil explains through Dan’s silence, and Dan snaps out of it.

“No, I’d love to! Sorry, I was just out of it for a second.”

“S’okay. Tomorrow, then? Is six okay?”

“PM, yeah.”

“As if I’d be able to be anywhere for six AM.”

“True. Six PM works fine for me, I’ll see you there.”

“Unless your hand has frozen to that gate,” Phil says, nods to where Dan’s hand is still locked onto the wood.

“I guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“I guess I will,” Phil agrees. Their lips are pulled tight in the inclement weather and Phil pulls Dan in for a quick hug in lieu of waving, the lamppost opposite watching as he walks away.

Dan’s hand comes away easily, of course, but there is a brief moment of tension as he moves it, like he actually thought it wouldn’t.

-

Dan's alone and a few minutes early as he exits his room and heads through the leaf ridden streets. He glances at his phone - moonlight reflecting off the scratched screen - and it boasts 17:47, thus he decides to take a diversion through town. This way, he’ll arrive later and not appear so desperate.

He walks down deserted streets and past amber windows, his shadow slipping between lampposts. Shadows and smoke clutch at his ribs and his lungs, stygian rose and rotten thorns of light darting along his vision as his eyes pass over alleys and comatose houses. A song is ringing in his head but he daren’t sing it aloud, hating to disrupt whatever is around him. The slight scent of damp hangs, flaccid, in the air. Squashed between hunching houses, the library passes him by; the building is an old shell with a new interior, as if its insides have been stripped out, before being stuffed with polished wood for bones and pallid vellum for flesh. Its walls still carry the same rugged shade of ruby from previous centuries. Dan can see the books under the gloom, the same strega light spilling through the door and onto the snaking path in the shape of freshly fallen petals.

He picks up his pace to move on, when he hears someone call his name. He turns around to see Phil running towards him, coat loose on his shoulders and a wide grin plastered between his flushed cheeks.

“Hey,” Phil greets him, a gasp of words.

“Are you alright there?” Dan asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do you need me to call someone?”

“Shut up,” Phil mumbles, “The last time I did exercise was when I was late for the bus, most probably.” He straightens again.

“You’re early,” Dan notes.

“So are you.” Dan opens his mouth to make an excuse, but Phil ploughs on, “It’s a shame too, right, because I was going to be there before you and make a pun, but now I can’t.”

“What was it?”

“You’re latte.”

Dan raises his eyebrows in a disdainful fashion.

“It’s better written down,” Phil admits, a laugh slipping through his tone.

“Yeah, well,” Dan agrees with a fast, irritated shake of his head. “You know what they say about making coffee puns?”

“What?”

“They can cause a latte problems,” Dan says, more proudly than he feels, and Phil’s face breaks into a smile.

“There have _bean_ better ones.”

“Right, we need to stop.”

“Don’t mocha me.”

Dan fixes him with a look, and Phil corrects himself, “Okay, yeah, we do.” They fall into a silence, watching each other.

“We need to get out more, you know,” Dan says.

“We do.”

“This is our downfall.”

“You’re right.” They’ve arrived at the Starbucks, and Phil holds the door open before continuing with a crooked grin, “We need to be _pun_ ished.”

Dan turns to glare at him, his lips carrying a hint of a smile. “If I had been holding that door, I would have slammed it in your face.”

“That’s why _I_ opened it. You could say it was -”

“Don’t you dare.”

A few minutes later they’re slouched across two sofas, hidden in the corner of the shop. It’s not entirely quiet, but the sounds ricochet off the wall and over their heads, creating this little bubble of quiet which allows them to hear each other, at least.

Phil has a habit of saying things that make Dan laugh while he’s drinking. Though he tries his best to stifle it, water flies out of his mouth in splutters, the near-boiling water trickling onto his hands. He winces and chides Phil.

“You could say you just _scolded_ me,” Phil says, deadpan.

“I swear to God, I will throw this at you.”

“You’d never,” Phil says, a derisive expression of shock etched into his face.

And Dan can’t argue with that, really.

-

“Doorfully good plan.”

“What?”

They’re walking down the empty streets towards Dan’s, their breath clouding in front of them. They left the coffee house after slipping a fiver to the singular barista, a belated apology for the abundance of spilt coffee they’ve left, laughing easily as they ambled away. The moon is large and bright in the corner of the sky, draped in fraying cloud that spills across the sky; it makes up for the lack of the illumination on the street, as all the shops are now shut and the streetlamps in this part of the city are few and far between.

“It was a doorfully good plan,” Phil explains. “The thing earlier; when I opened the door so you couldn’t slam it in my face.”

Dan stays silent, blinking at him. Now that they’re reached the gate in front of his house, he has the excuse to stay still.

“Get it? Like awfully and door-”

“I get it, you twat!” Dan exclaims, “It’s just fucking awful.”

“Don’t you mean doorful?”

“No,” Dan says simply.

“Can’t you let me have this, just this once, please?”

“If I let you have this one, you’ll just continue to take advantage.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“No, but I _know_ it. And, I’m really sorry, but I’ve really gotta go. I guess you’ll be going back to your library.”

“I have a home, you know.”

Dan snorts, drawls, “I believe you.”

There’s a few heartbeats of silence.

Phil nods. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

In the light streaming in from the road, Dan can see Phil flash him one last smile, and he waves before turning away.

-

The coffee evening becomes a weekly event. Next Friday, Dan offers to meet Phil again (he stumbles over his words and braces himself for the answer, but he does it, he does it) and after that, it becomes an unspoken agreement. Conversations end with a _see you at Starbucks, then_ and no more is said. It’s content, easy.

October has sunk into November in a flurry of cloud and fireworks before the third meeting, so now they meet in the company of scarves and beanies, and the odd colourful spark in the sky.

They still meet at the library - Phil grudgingly aids Dan in his work and asks him about the novels he’s lent Dan to distract him, a _this will be an hour long conversation_ being received with a _that’s the point_ from Phil that makes Dan flush - but at the coffee shop there are no screaming children, there’s no work to be preoccupied with. Dan doesn’t invite Chris and PJ, either. It’s a time for just Phil and him. A time filled with rich, warm coffee and bad jokes and twisted ribbon lips and playing nostalgia on napkins, biro smudging over their hands. This is what Dan loves the most, though. Phil is as weird as he is, if he thinks of it in that way - more carefree, certainly; it means there’s no expectation, no pressure. It’s just laughs and Dan catching himself staring for too long.

“Our feud will continue,” Phil announces at the end of the fifth meeting, pushing away the remnants of hangman as they stand up.

“‘Our’ feud? It seems pretty one sided to me.” Dan nods to the barista before stepping outside into the winter air.

“You take law; you know tonnes more words than me.”

“You work in a library.”

“You take law,” Phil repeats.

“So it has one pro, at least,” Dan says. Phil hums to himself.

“You met me ‘cause of it,” Phil hints, looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” Dan sighs after a moment, “Only one pro.”

Phil shoves him. Nothing more is said.

-

Sunday morning, Dan is dragged out of his bed by one of his housemates yelling “Dan! Someone wants you!” up the stairs.

“Coming, I’m coming,” he shouts back, pulling on a shirt and trudging down stairs. His hands don’t succeed in fully clearing the sleep from his eyes, and he walks in a dazed manner, clinging onto any ledge or corner available as he makes it to the front door.

“Phil?”

Phil smiles. “That’s me.” He’s already dressed at half nine in the morning, hair combed and face bright enough.

“What are you doing here…” Dan questions. Somewhere closeby, a dog barks, and it’s then that Dan notices the lead Phil’s clutching onto with one tight fist. “Phil,” he warns.

“Dan, Dan, I need to ask for a huge favour from you, I’m really sorry.” Phil tugs at the lead, and a small terrier sidles into view, preoccupied by the fabric that has ensnared it.

“Phil, what the fuck -”

“My friend, Josie, asked me to look after him for the day and I couldn’t say _no,_ could I?” Phil wastes no time in explaining the situation, and no marks are lost on the theatrics, either. “And I really need your help, if you can?”

“I need to get dressed.”

“I can wait.”

Dan sags against the door frame, closes his eyes; Phil smiles apologetically.

“Please?”

“Fine, yes, fine.”

“Great! Dan, meet Winston.”

Dan looks down, once again, at the dog - his well-groomed coat glistens gold in the bleeding sun as he bounds around Phil’s legs - and states, “Your friend actually named this poor dog Winston.”

“Err, no. He’s a terrier and he’s actually called. Um.”

“You have not forgotten.”

“Charlie,” Phil finishes. “But I don’t like that name.”

“So now he’s called Winston.”

“Of course. And he wants you to respect his life choices.” Winston’s attention is grabbed by the loose flagstone two metres behind Phil, and as he dashes over, Phil almost loses his balance trying to restrain him. Laughing once at this, Dan replies, “Sure he does. Nice to meet you, Winston.”

“Good. Now, I was thinking about going to the park?”

“I still need to get dressed.” Dan pulls the fabric of his tracksuit bottoms away from his leg, letting it drop back into place.

“I can wait,” Phil says again. “Be quick, though, because Winston really can’t wait,” he calls after Dan as he hastens back inside.

“Winston needs to learn to have some patience, not gonna lie.”

Now, Dan could take an aggravatingly long time, or he could be back downstairs within two minutes. He selects the second; throws on the shirt, jacket and jeans that hang, limp, on the chair, and runs a comb through his hair with a “ _that’ll do”_ left in the space he vacates. Hooking two fingers into his shoes as he passes them, he returns to the front door. Phil’s having a hard time of telling Winston to sit, _sit dammit_ , and Dan keeps quiet as he pulls his shoes on.

He announces his reappearance with, “You having fun there?”

Phil jumps. He carries it off well, though, by straightening back up again. Winston bounds up again as he turns and replies, “Oh, you’re back.”

“Yes.”

“You ready?”

“Yeah.” Dan pulls the door shut behind him, zips his jacket up and falls in beside Phil, who picks up a carrier bag from the floor before setting off.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Phil asks as they amble along, knuckles stringent in their grip of the dog lead as Winston runs a few metres ahead.

“No, no, you didn’t.”

“But you had to get dressed, you were still dressed for bed…”

“I was awake. Just, um, not out of bed.”

“Of course you weren’t.”

“It’s a Sunday.”

“You should be a productive member of society. Like me.” Phil puts his spare hand to his chest as he says this; their pace is rushed, staggering to keep up with Winston as he tugs them forward.

Shadows fall into the cracks in the pavement, a dark soporific that spills out over their feet; the sky belongs to its overcast self, the sun still immured by clouds as, every so often, a breeze picks up. Unfastened coats fly up, shop signs flap wildly, as their skin prickles from the flood of cold. The streets are quiet, stoic in thought.

“No offence to Charlie -”

“Winston.”

“No offence to Charlie,” Dan repeats, “or - well - you, but I’m going to keep my distance from that dog.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t be responsible for a living thing, Phil! I need to remain uninvolved in this.”

“I always thought you were a dog person.” Phil cocks his head.

“That is irrelevant. I’m just here for moral support, nothing more.”

“Come on, Dan. Winston’s lovely, he loves you already, look. Winston!” At Phil’s call, Winston scampers back over to them, eagerly looking between them both with his mouth hanging open. “Say hello to Dan, Winston.”

“Isn’t he cold?” Dan studies him askance, eyeing Winston’s thin coat as he yaps at his ankles.

“Just give him a hug, Dan.”

“No, I told you, I’m -”

“You’re not being responsible, yes, whatever. But give him a hug. It’s good for you.”

“Science with Phil,” Dan says, gives a short laugh. They’ve stopped walking, now, and Dan fixates his gaze on the dog at his feet.

“Exactly.”

Once Dan and Winston are acquainted - it involves more licking than Dan signed up for - Dan abandons his rule and repeatedly bends down to ruffle Winston’s coat, and even offers to take charge of the lead. Phil looks relieved, and once it’s been safely transferred, Phil shakes his arms out, “Ow.”

“As time goes on, I understand why you agreed to this less and less.”

Phil laughs as he pushes his fringe from his face, giving a shrug of the shoulder and saying, “I didn’t think it would be this hard.” The sun flits between two clouds, the rays spiralling out as a glare in the corner of Dan’s eye.

“So you asked me to save you.”

Phil nods. The handle of his carrier bag has begun to fray, but Dan doesn’t tell him just yet. “I’m glad one of us knows why we’re here.”

-

“So,” Dan remarks later on, with the park in sight and the threat of rain leering on the horizon. “How are we meant to feed this dog?”

Phil stops in his tracks. “Oh, shit. I didn’t get any dog food.”

Dan gives a sharp pull on the lead, and Winston skids to a halt, sitting himself down in the middle of the pavement. “Oh my _God.”_

“It didn’t occur to me!”

“What, so you just thought Winston could go a whole day without being fed?” Dan exclaims, jutting his head forward.

Phil starts to laugh, “No.”

“This is no laughing matter, Phil,” Dan snaps, but a grin cracks his mask, and he puts a palm to his forehead. “Why.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Phil says, “We can just go buy some food, right?”

“But we just got here. And Winston’s hungry. Oh my _God._ ”

“There’s a pet store five minutes that way, I’m sure,” Phil assures him, finger pointing to one of the crossroads.

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“Are you _sure_? You haven’t forgotten anything else, like how to breathe? How to think?”

Phil pulls a face, eyes rolling to the top of his head. “Nope. Still got that.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Dan beckons Winston to standing again, and as he beings to trot off, the pair head towards the road Phil pointed to. “I hate you.”

-

The stench of the pet store hits them as a wave of sense, hitting them face on. It’s a relatively small store, and the only living things are the birds, fish and rabbits, but it’s enough for Dan to want to stand outside with Winston. And he’s not sure how trustworthy Phil’s knotting skills are.

“Hey, Dan, it’s you.”

“That’s a fish.”

“I know.”

“It looks dead.”

“Exactly.”

“Thanks.”

They turn into another aisle, and still there is no sign of the section they need.

“Hey, Dan, it’s -”

“And this is when I walk a few metres in front of you.”

Dan takes a few steps forward to the end of the aisle before Phil calls him over.

“What is it?” he asks, walking up and looking past Phil’s shoulder.

“This gerbil looks like you.”

Dan stares him down for a few seconds. Phil clings on to a look of innocence as he jabs a finger at the cage. “Right, that’s it, I’m leaving to look after Winston. You’d better hurry up.”

“Oh.”

“You brought this on yourself.”

-

“What’s _wrong?_ Why isn’t he content?” Dan complains as Phil exits the shop. Winston’s barking at his feet, has been for the past five minutes.

“What do you mean?”

“He won’t shut up.”

“A bit like you.”

“Excuse me.”

-

Eventually, they arrive at the park. Moving figures occupy different parts, but it is not overcrowded, so Dan isn’t as concerned about letting Winston run free. Over the last couple of minutes, it has got ever harder to restrain Winston and his urgent tugging on the lead.

Fractions of the leaves have been prepared to burn amber at noon, the rest remaining a senile type of green. With the remaining shrubbery lining areas of the path and huddling together against the oncoming winter, the park is showing signs of disintegrating under the wind’s fingers; the colours are falling away. The clouds have rolled in closer, lofty sputters of grey and white smothering the sky at a variety of different altitudes, all clumping together at a distance Dan estimates as two miles away. The trees wave to their opposites, the grey churns with captured rain, and Dan says, “We can’t stay here long,” as the clouds crawl closer.

Phil squints upwards. “We can risk it.”

Heading for an expanse of clear field, they pass another couple of dogs - one is somehow smaller than Winston - and Winston becomes agitated, yapping and barking and scurrying after them. When the dogs bark back, Dan extends the lead so Winston can scamper over.

“What do we do?” Phil asks as the three animals rush around each other, introducing themselves by butting their heads wherever they can.

“They’re bonding,” says Dan, “You can’t stop nature, Phil.”

As the noise augments, Phil winces, says, “I hate to say it, Dan, but Winston exactly doesn’t have the X-factor.”

Dan looks back to the dogs. “X-factor? More like…”

Phil awaits an answer, and there’s a pause as Dan frowns, returning to meet his gaze. He sighs, “I’ve got nothing.”

“Both of you have let me down. Come on, Winston,” he beckons, and after some coaxing with the newly-bought food, they manage to continue on their way,

-

They play frisbee. Dan stupidly stands in the direction of the sun, and squints the entire time. Phil leaps for the toy, runs, excites Winston with a high pitched tone as if he’s not twenty-seven and in public. Dan can’t catch and Phil gets a frisbee to the head ( _I’m so sorry oh my God are you okay_ ) and a dog leaping into his head. Phil falls over. Winston runs off in a random direction, and Dan can’t do anything because he’s laughing too hard.

“I don’t totally understand how that happened,” Dan begins as he helps Phil up. “But I’m really glad it did.

“Who knew dogs could jump that high,” Phil agrees; he twists his whole body around to peer over his shoulder, and the smears of grass and mud are revealed. Dan bursts into laughter once again, but helps Phil in brushing it all off.

Winston soon becomes disinterested in the game, and no amount of treats or frisbees waved in his face changes that. Eating daisies, tail hitting the ground, he plonks himself down between them. Soon after this he runs off; he shows no sign of returning, and Phil chases after him as Dan films the whole thing.

-

Finally, they’re all back together, calm and collected as they take up one of the benches. Dan attempts to restore some life into his curling, unruly hair; they talk as Winston chews the toy Phil remembers Josie gave him.

“Who knew winter could be so warm,” Dan remarks, shedding his jacket.

“It’s still autumn.”

“Who knew winter could be so warm,” Dan persists. Phil gives up and offers him a boiled sweet.

It’s as if the day has finally sorted itself out; the wind has dissipated into a sugar-like breeze, Winston isn’t barking anymore, and nature’s colours glow in the sun.

And then it starts to rain.

Phil groans as the water pours down.

“Why didn’t we realise?” Dan raises his voice over the rattle of the downpour - the sky is bogged down with darkened cloud. Fumbling with the clip of the lead, Phil doesn’t answer, and they hurry off, both of them stuffing their fists into the sleeves of their jackets and crossing their arms over their chests. For once, Winston’s nimble footsteps are on their side.

“It’s confirmed,” Dan says, head tilted forwards against the diagonal water. Cold streaks down their backs and cheeks, their hair hanging in thick coils over their skulls, their clothes steadily soaking through. “You’re cursed.”

“What did I do?” Phil pouts, ducking his head as water strikes his eyes.

“Have you seen yourself?” Dan turns to him, as if that proves his point. Phil’s shoulders are hunched up around his ears, his presence broken apart by the onslaught of rain between them; his hair is stuck to his head, split into five parts, and the rainwater glistens on his skin. Eyelashes caught together, he blinks away water.

“This wasn’t my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was. I’m just saying, you may want to get an exorcism.”

“That bad?”

“Yes,” Dan confirms, lifting his arm and wrings out the water. It falls onto the ground with a series of splats. “That bad.”

“Do you know anyone?”

“I’ve always thought Chris might be into that kind of stuff.”

“I’m telling him you said that.”

Dan laughs. “You think I care?”

“Well. You should.” Phil looks down at him through his soaked hair; Dan raises his eyebrows, and Phil just gives in to a laugh.

-

“Thank you so much for doing that for me,” Phil says from Dan’s doorstep. Now that they’ve arrived home, the rain has stopped. Of course.

“Believe me, I would never have agreed if I knew it would be that much of a bother.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Violently, Winston shakes himself, sending strikes of water out at all angles.

Some lands on Dan’s shoes and trousers, and he comments, “Oh, that’s nice.”

“Sorry. But you’re already wet, so it doesn’t matter.”

“True.” Dan bends down and strokes Winston’s head. “I don’t understand why you needed me.”

“I was lonely and there was no way in hell that I was going to take single responsibility for a living thing.”

“You could’ve just said no.”

“No, I really couldn’t.”

“Are you scared of Josie, Phil?” Dan teases. Winston shakes himself again, and Dan backs away.

“I’m scared of Winston,” replies Phil. “He’s too cute for his own good.”

Dan laughs. “Yeah, literally.”

After Phil politely declines Dan’s offer of central heating and a mug of coffee, they bid each other goodbye.

“Try not to get knocked over again.”

“I can make no promises.”

“And don’t forget to get that exorcism.”

“As if I could.”

-

Phil thanks him the following day with a series of dog related puns and a packet of chocolate biscuits shaped as jungle animals. Dan’s bent over his work when Phil throws it at him, and it hits the bottom of his neck as he jumps, cries out, “Jesus _Christ._ ”

“Oops. Sorry.”

“Yeah…” Dan leans down to pick it up, dangles it between two fingers and asks, “What’s this?”

“It’s an appropriate thank you gift. For yesterday.”

“Phil, they’re jungle animals.”

“I know. But they didn’t have dog ones.” Phil slumps down into the seat next to Dan, resting on the desk with both arms under his head.

“What are you doing?” Dan says it more like a statement than a question, agitated, as Phil shuts his eyes.

“Sleeping.”

“I need to work.”

“Mhmmm,” Phil replies sleepily.

“Meaning you need to fucking _move_.” Dan pokes at Phil’s shoulder.

“Ughh.” Phil lifts his head just so he can face away from Dan.

“You gonna move?” Nothing. “Alright, then.”

Dan throws his jacket over Phil’s head as revenge; proceeding to work, he pretends that Phil isn’t there and opens the packet of biscuits. (Phil asks for one from under the fabric. Dan ignores him and slips one under the jacket a minute later.)

-

“Phil had to catch a moth the other day.”

“In the library?” PJ asks, eyebrows raised.

“Mhm,” Dan mumbles around his straw, finishing off his writing with a flick of his pen.

“How did it even get in there? Do libraries ever open their windows?” says Chris, looking up from the nine-times-nine-grid version of noughts and crosses PJ and him have concocted.

Dan shrugs. “I have no fucking clue how it got there, but it was there. You should’ve seen him - it flew off and Phil, Phil fucking dashed to the other end of the _aisle_.”

“You’re both idiots.”

“Excuse you, I stood by and helped him.”

“Did you scream?”

“We were in the library, PJ. I couldn’t exactly -”

“But did you scream? Even a little?”

“Kind of.”

_“Kind of,”_ Chris repeats, nodding. “You hear that, Peej?”

“Phil said I sounded like a demented goose, but that’s just his opinion.”

“His opinion is probably right, son.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Who caught the moth, Dan?”

“Phil did,” Dan answers PJ quietly, fully knowing his point.

“Phil did. Well, there you go.” PJ takes his turn, draws a particularly blotched, leaning cross on the paper.

Talk turns to other topics, and Dan turns some attention to the task in front of him. One particular discussion grabs his attention, however, and he can’t help but say, “Apparently the university has to have fifteen working vending machines at all times, so it can’t be that hard to get coffee in the mornings.”

“Who told you that?” Chris says to him.

“Phil...”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Of course he did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, don’t worry.”

-

Dan shut the cover of ‘The Night Circus’ weeks back, but for some reason it is still in his possession, Phil insisting that it’s fine if he keeps it for a while longer - he has no need for it, after all. Most idle nights are spent with Dan opening it - sometimes on a random page - and reading for as long as his eyes will allow. The sticky note is on his wall, above its counterparts of different colours. Phil has taken to lending Dan more of his favourites, and each time he does, notes are left between the pages; messages punctuated with emoticons and exclamation marks. They talk about the part Dan’s just read or ask random questions, and Dan takes each one and attaches it to the wall with an old packet of blu tack, and it’s possibly the most personal touch in the whole room.

Tonight, he reads them all through again. He falls asleep with his book splayed open by his fingers.


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dan finds out something about phil, and a series of "revelations" follow

Dan bumps into Louise, a bundle of sweaters and scarves, while wandering into town, and they end up entering the library together, laughing uncontrollably at a recent encounter of Louise’s as they do so. Spotting them from the desk, Phil scolds them with a finger to his lips, struggling to keep his mouth in a firm line.

As much as he likes catching up with Louise, Dan insists on doing his work, so they sit in relative silence while he busies himself with paper and a thesaurus.

After a few minutes, Louise twists to look behind her, leaning back to grab a book off the shelf. Dan’s brow is furrowed over one sentence.

Phil announces his arrival with a “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Dan already knows what’s coming next. “Dan did it and he ended up on the floor.”

“Oh my God.” Louise sets her chair right again.

“Having his feet in my face wasn’t how I wanted to bond with him, but I guess it worked.”

“I think you’ll find that what you saw was my best side,” Dan mutters.

“How come I haven’t heard about this before? Dan?” She looks to him, and Dan sinks far down in his seat to see what happens next.

“Yeah, Dan,” Phil mocks, perching on the far edge of the table and prodding his shoulder.

“It’s no big deal.”

“He’s like a big teenager, isn’t he?” Louise says to Phil, who laughs and nods.

“‘ _It’s no big deal_ ,’” he repeats, low and disgruntled.

“ _I write poetry in my spare time.”_

_“My mum found my emo blog.”_

“Yes, okay, I get it,” Dan cuts them off. “When will you let me live?”

“Never,” Phil replies.

“We’re here to make your life a living misery.”

“We’re practically your parents.”

Dan eyes them both up, nose wrinkled. “I fucking hope not.”

Phil continues to join them when he can, a periodic constant in their conversation. Five pages and one particularly stressful incident involving spilt drink later, Dan is done with his work. “Fucking finally,” he says, puts down his pen with added vigour.

Louise lets out a “hurrah” at a volume too loud for comfort, and follows it with a string of “sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” and a meek look.

“Who are you talking to?” Dan asks as he scoops his work into a pile. He looks around and raises his hands. “There’s no one here.”

“The walls have ears,” replies Louise. “Or is it eyes? Oh, I don’t know.”

“Right...I’ve got to check something with Phil, are you good going on without me?”

“Of course. In the most loving way possible.”

“You’ve really let yourself go,” Dan remarks, amused. Louise closes the flap of her bag and looks at him.

“My articulacy does not reflect my intellect.”

“I never said it did.”

“Yes you did.”

“I didn’t - screw it, just leave.”

“I’m going, I’m going. What’s the rush?”

“No rush, you’re just really annoying in large doses.” Dan scoops his bag off the table and hooks it over his arm, walking beside Louise up until the exit doors.

“Dan, I thought we were closer than this.”

“You’re not my real mother.”

“Dan!”

“I am kidding. Just in case you’re actually offended. Don’t be.”

Louise grins. “You’re a big softie.”

“Bye, Louise.”

Rolling her eyes, she leaves, telling him to make sure that whatever business he has with Phil better be worth this. The door bounces on the frame, finally halting; Dan breathes out through his mouth, turns, marches forward in search of Phil.

The carpet of the library is decorated with ordered dots, a navy against the lighter teal, and they mingle with the blur of his striding feet. It is unchanging as he goes along, only changing when he lifts his head to lend each alley of books a cursory glance. Starting from the end and heading for the other, he knows he will find Phil eventually.

When he does find Phil, he’s stretching high on tiptoes to reach the top shelf, a book teetering on the edge of his grip.

“Need some help?”

Phil succeeds in slotting the book into its rightful place. “I’m taller than you!”

Dan shrugs. “I’m probably more limber than you. Old man.”

Arms now crossed and face sullen, Phil asks, “Did you want anything?”

“I just came to check if you’re okay for tonight. I guess you probably _are_ , but I feel better checking…”

Phil’s smile slips as easily as his eyes fall to the floor.

“God, I’m really sorry, Dan.”

“What?” Dan interrupts, panic abrupt, “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s nothing like that. I’ve just been really dumb: I’ve got a date tonight, I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Oh, right.”

“But next week, yeah?” Phil tries, smiles. Dan fights up one of his own: a fraying rope of a grin.

“‘Course. I’ll see you soon, then.” Making to leave, his feet and head are heavy with the wish that a smile could fix everything.

“Oh, Dan?”

“Yeah?” Outside, the wind sends ripples undulating through the leftover puddles.

“Can I have your number?”

Dan can’t help but grin. (That is the issue of turning away: it does not take a lot to pull you back.) Slowly, he turns around. “You could, if I actually had the money to text you.”

Phil nods, slots another book into place and raps his fingers along the shelf. “Facebook, then?”

The poverty of eye contact is stripping him bare, everything is stripping him down and yet he is more encumbered than ever. He won’t show that, though, and informs him, “Dan Howell.”

“Phil Lester.”

“Your name’s Phil? I never knew.”

“I’ve been living under an alias. My whole life is a lie.”

“I thought I could trust you!”

“You should never trust people like me. Even MI5 fear me.”

“Okay, enough. Random tangents are our bad habits; I have a lecture to get to.”

“I’ll find you.”

“No need to make it sound like some sort of challenge, Phil.”

“You’re being a challenge at the moment,” Phil counters, and Dan snorts.

“Ouch.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Dan confirms. He does get to walk away this time, feet fervent - not with nerves, but desperation, his shoulders slumped. Peace of mind rolls down the slope of his neck and slips through his fingers.

“You okay?” Louise asks once he’s caught up with her. The pink of her lips is too bright, the bustle of the stationary street too loud, and he has to look away.

“Hm?” he says, although he heard her just fine. “Oh, yeah, completely,” he finishes, voice tired. Louise keeps quiet.

-

It hurts, just as it is supposed to. Or, at least, that’s what he keeps reminding himself; the guilt almost overrides the ache. His eyes drag up to the clock only to find that the second hand hasn’t found a new place to rest; his pen cannot sit still in his hands, skittering and scudding and sliding off the page. His knee bounces to the tune of a nursery rhyme. This lecture is important, Dan needs to know about these policies if he’s to pass, but he’s so bored and so distracted, distracted, distracted.

Once again, Dan falls to lower priority. Fridays were their thing, a promise of furled pinky fingers, but the only thing furling now is the inclement green coiling in his stomach.

Dan traipses home with his mind disembodied, the recent events encumbering his every step.

The arrangement they had meant a lot to him, he realises now. His afternoon is barren without it; he’s left staring at the blank wall, spinning around and around on his chair as the neglected water he’s spilled is left to drip off onto the floor. It is not only that he’s lost it, but what he has lost it to: a date, something more important. Dan hasn’t even been replaced: she was there before him, and all he’s been wanting to do is fill a space that wasn’t his to take.

-

Dan knows who she is. A Laura Moor, watered down shades of copper staining her eyes and hair and skin; a countenance that is always smiling, not weighed down by the glare of the sun or the wrinkles such mirth brings. When Phil adds him on Facebook, he cannot help but look through his page. In the pictures of them together, they are smiling. Always, they are smiling.

-

The feeling hits home as jealousy. That, in itself, is an unwelcomed shock. Perhaps he was barely conscious of this, but he certainly hadn’t labelled himself _envious_. He had labelled himself “ _empty”_ and “ _lost boy”_ ; introspection never came into it.

Now, Dan types Phil’s name into Facebook again without thinking it through, his head finding its own way to Phil’s photos and bringing one up, full screen, on the laptop. The image depicts nothing particularly noteworthy in itself: it was taken at a family gathering, Dan reckons, but it shows Phil, and that’s all he needs. He leans his cheek on his palm, takes his hands away from the keyboard, and looks; he allows himself to notice the things that, previously, had gone below his radar.

(Dan smiles when Phil does, Dan talks about him without prompting, Dan makes his feet walk in time with Phil’s, ostensibly because if they’re not, it sounds like he’s being left behind. )

It takes bare seconds of focusing to realise that what was once an acknowledgement of attractiveness, something that he can feel for anyone, is now a “I want to be close to you and hold your hand and buy a dog with you” thing, and that the only reason he brought Facebook up in the first place is because he likes looking at him.

This doesn’t happen often.

This doesn’t happen often at all and when it does it takes a special connection to found it on, and Dan exits the page and slams his laptop shut. He buries his head in his hands and sighs - an action that is only cathartic for a good two seconds.

This is where his demiromanticism always lands him: oblivious until it’s too late, landed in something that, when he became friends with said person, he never actually intended. He knows from experience - events few and far between, but experience - that this is how it will be from now on. Cue him ruining this friendship.

He’s never going to be able to talk to Phil again, never going to be able to look at him the same way. He should just never talk to him again. He _can’t_ : that would be too embarrassing.

He will inevitably talk to him again, is the thing, because they are friends, primarily, and because he enjoys the company too much. (For reasons that don’t involve hand holding, mind.)

Dan tugs at the skin under his eyes until his vision warps. _Fucking fantastic,_ he thinks to himself, just for the ability to have something on his mind that isn’t explicitly about what he’s gotten himself into.

What he’s left with: attraction for someone who, one, is his friend, and two, has a partner.

Dan throws himself across the bed, dodging his laptop and the law notes he’s left unfinished, stretches his arm out wide to slide his charging phone across the floor enough that he can pick it up.

He calls Louise on impulse. Third ring in, she picks up.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dan mutters an _ow ow fuck ow_ to himself as he hauls his upper body back onto the mattress.

“What are you doing?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Right, well, if that’s the case -”

“Is there anything on the other side of the black hole?” Dan butts in, impulse still going strong.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you take astronomy.”

“Can’t you Google?”

“Just answer.”

“No. Black holes are just collapsed stars, there’s nothing beyond them.”

“So if I were to go through one…”

“You would be pulled into a thousand pieces, never to see this universe - or an alternate one - ever again.”

“Perfect,” Dan replies. “Thanks, Louise. Bye.” He hangs up.

Laughing bitterly at his own joke, Dan throws his phone onto the bed, throws on a jacket, and goes to find himself some coffee.

-

As he predicted, he goes back to the library soon after. There’s work that needs to be done by tomorrow and five pages left, and he reminds himself that that is why he has given in so soon.

Dan enters the library with a grimace and the plump expectation that no matter what happens next, it will be awkward. Phil bids him hello ten minutes later, comes back again after a while and hangs around, arranging books and trying to remember as many Disney songs as he can.

“Are you done?” Dan remarks halfway through Phil’s rendition of The Circle Of Life, improvised lyrics included.

“Yes,” Phil confirms, nods; and when Dan replies with “thank fuck for that” he hits him on the shoulder - lightly - with one of the books he’s carrying.

“Surely that’s against the Librarian Code of Conduct, or something,” Dan objects.

“So is insulting my singing.”

“It had to be said.”

“I’m done with The Lion King, but not with Disney as a whole. So you’re just going to have to cope.”

“Ughh.”

It is awkward, but only for him internally. In reality, everything is normal. Phil is his usual, friendly self, and Dan is acting in no way different to how he used to.

“What’s the first song in Mulan?”

“‘I Hate Phil.’”

“Oh.” Phil fights his face into a pout as Dan laughs.

He could get used to this, actually.

-

“I barely know anything important about you,” Phil says, standing out of Dan’s eye sight as he puts books in their places.

“Hm?”

“All I know is that you fall out of chairs.”

“Wow, thanks.” Dan pauses his work and twists to face him, to find Phil already looking his way. “We talk about other stuff.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know things about _you_ , just what you think about other things.”

“Like…”

“Like.” Phil spreads out the three books in his hand like they’re cards, studies them closely as he smiles and says, “You got your eye on anyone?”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Oh my God.”

“Forget I asked,” Phil hurries to say, pushing one novel into place between two hardbacks, before looking Dan’s way again.

“Happily.” Dan returns to his assignment. One arm sits on either side, and he frowns down at the paper. “What’s the word for when you unfairly make use of something?”

Phil strides over and peers over his shoulder, one arm braced on the table. Dan ensures that he doesn’t move. “Misuse? Exploit?”

“Exploit!” Dan writes it down. Phil stays where he is.

“There must be something about yourself that you can think of.”

“I don't know what I am, to be honest. That is the right context, right?” Dan prods the paper with the nib of his pen. There is a pause while Phil reads, leaning closer to do so.

“RIP my personal space,” Dan comments, looking to his left only to regret doing so.

Phil breathes a laugh, “Sorry. And, yeah that’s right.”

“Good.”

“You’re like a UFO.”

Dan does look to Phil, then, with a disbelieving grin and one hand out, palm up. “Excuse me?”

“Because you don’t know what you are,” Phil explains, like it’s obvious.

“And how does that make me a UFO?”

“ _Like_ a UFO,” Phil corrects. “Because you’re cool. Undiscovered. Duh.”

“Yeah, because when I think ‘UFO,’ I totally think of my own identity.”

“Of course. You are a UFO.”

Dan snorts. “An enigma.”

“ _Exactly._ ” Phil laughs again, and now Dan is, too. He laughs for too long, but he finds that he doesn’t care for how loud he’s being, doesn’t care for how he leans forward and sideways under the waves of it. For a small length of time - a period of time that equates to an ink stain - he just doesn’t care.

“Right, okay, leave,” Dan orders eventually, swatting Phil away. “I actually need to finish this.”

-

“Can you, ” Dan begins, with two more encounters with Phil under his belt and the beginnings of a headache really messing with his brain, “give me some hypothetical advice?”

“Hypothetically,” Chris replies. “Of course we can.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” PJ asks, frowning as he nods at the textbook splayed across Dan’s desk. There’s a dash of vibrant green on his jaw; Chris already mouthed to Dan “ _don’t tell him_ , _”_ so Dan has refrained from pointing out the ink, but he still grins to himself.

“Law hurts my head,” he tells him, mournful, burying his head in his hands.

“Yeah, _Dad_.”

PJ ignores Chris. “Well...sure, go ahead.” He clicks the lid onto his pen, the tip missing it, at first, and smudging pink ink onto his finger.

“So let’s say, theoretically, that I was friends with someone, and, theoretically, I also happened to want to date them. Which I don’t. But let’s say I did.”

“Which you don’t.”

“Yes. But, let’s say I do.”

“Theoretically,” Chris adds, nodding his head.

“Completely theoretically,” PJ says. He’s started to play with a string of sunlight that the curtains are letting in, weaving it between two fingers.

“Exactly. And let’s say, theoretically, that this was only a recent thing, and I have no fucking clue what to do. Theoretically.”

“Of course.” PJ nods in understanding.

This is, Dan thinks to himself, very dumb, but because it’s deliberate, he can’t care less.

“Yeah. And so, theoretically, I just wanted to let you know. So you could give me some theoretical advice.”

“I see - theoretically.”

“Thanks.”

“Right,” says PJ with a smile. “Well, I think that theoretical you has to just act normal.”

“Yeah. Or, tell them - hypothetically.”

“Oh, and, I don’t know, let’s say they have a girlfriend. Theoretically. That’s the theoretical situation I’m in.”

“Well, fuck. That’s not good, that’s not good at all.”

“Theoretically, Peej, theoretically.”

“I know.”

“You need to get abducted by aliens.”

“Or leave the country, change your name and dye your hair blonde.”

Dan splutters. “Err…”

“Hypothetically, that is.”

“Oh, yes, you had me worried there.”

“Or,” Chris continues, pulling himself off the floor and leaning against the desk by Dan’s side. “Ditch this friend and hook up with enough people that you forget who you even loved to start with.”

“Until you forget your name.”

“Until you forget what country you’re in.”

“Until you forget your _entire identity_ ,” PJ finishes, sweeping his hands out before him. He laughs once before cutting it off, lowering his chin as he meets Dan’s eyes, dead serious.

“Basically, mate, you’re theoretically fucked.”

“Wow.” Dan leans back in his chair. “That is some great theoretical advice you’ve given me.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” PJ replies.

“Now, Dan,” Chris stutters a laugh, adding to his nervous act. “Factually speaking…”

“Mhm…”

“You’re fucked, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Dan admits after a short hesitation. “Yes, I am.” He is laughing in the face of it, for now.

“Right.” Chris nods, pats Dan’s shoulder, and strolls back to his spot on the ground, stepping over PJ’s legs to do so. This is where he promptly slumps back down.

“What? Is that all?”

As if in answer, Chris taps PJ’s shoulder and holds out a cupped hand. “You owe me five.”

Dan blinks. “You...bet on this?”

PJ scoffs, “Are you serious? Of course not!”

“Thank God.”

“Who do you take us for?”

“Yeah, it would’ve been pointless. The outcome was really obvious.”

Dan’s embarrassment scatters his relief. “Er…”

“We tried to bet,” Chris continues, “for comedy’s sake. But we found that we both felt very passionately about our shared prediction.”

Dan is speechless as they stare, lips concaving under the effort to fight smiles. “...Fuck me.”

-

From there onwards, the matter is not mentioned, for which Dan is very grateful. Chris tries to tease him, once, but PJ kicks him under the table - _with doc martens_ , Chris keeps saying once Phil has left. _I’ll do it again if you don’t shut up. And please take your feet off my chair, it’s for my arse, not your shoes,_ PJ replies, and the issue is sorted.

Phil makes bad puns and buys new nerd shirts; Dan does his work at the library and takes two times too long to finish it; PJ gets more ink on his face and swears at Chris for not telling him sooner; Chris gains an orange-ink mustache and asks Phil how much duct tape is acceptable before he really needs to buy a new music stand. (The answer is _you can never have too much duct tape. Dan and PJ heartily agree, say nothing about having it on standby for when Chris talks too much._ ) These traits all fit together into a gentle content; four fractions, but also four wholes.

-

“How’s the law going?” Phil greets Dan as he sits beside him, eyes regarding the pages with as much idea of what they mean as Dan does, most likely.

Dan stops writing - it was more just tapping with his pen, anyway - and shakes his head as he exhales.

“I don’t even know.” He moves the sheets of paper cluelessly, the words blurring and mingling. “Not very well,” he then answers.

“It’ll get better.”

“ _Will it?_ ” lives and dies on his lips - sticks like salt crystals in the cracks; Dan looks up to say it, but Phil is already looking at him, and the sincerity lingers even though the gaze darts away. It silences him. His retort does not make it into sound.

Dan thinks for a second.

“What did you want to do? When you were younger?”

Phil’s eyes ignite - barely, but it is there. “I wanted to be a weatherman, for a bit.” He laughs - at himself, to himself. “It wasn’t your average goal, I know.” Dan’s lips curl up. “Then I wanted to be a writer. Still do.”

Dan nods, looks up. “And is that working out?”

Phil shrugs, “I work here, don’t I?” It’s clear neither know if that means _‘yes’_ or _‘no’_.

They make eye contact as Dan thinks. His childhood had been hiding under covers with an orange torch as he read late into the night, small hands clutched around books; deciding that, one day, he’d be able to do the same: he’d be able to write. That dream has since died, and Dan doesn’t have anything, really, but the idea of someone else living it for him makes him smile. Phil smiles back, and Dan stops himself looking away.

“So you write, then?”

“Yeah, occasionally,” Phil replies, “It’s crap, but I write. It’s not anything worth reading.”

“I’d read your book if you wrote one,” Dan says quietly.

“Thanks.”

“Can I read something, one day? Not right now, obviously, but -”

“Yeah, one day. I promise.”

“When’s _‘one day’_? Because I’m not waiting ‘til I’m fucking ninety.”

Phil laughs again. “It won’t be that long. Eighty, probably.”

“Great.” ( _You’d better keep your damn promise.)_

There seems to be some words dawdling on Phil’s lips, but Dan never gets to hear them. Their gazes return to the blotted work spread out in front of them, lapsing into a silence.

Dan sighs.

“Well, I’d better be going.” Phil straightens slowly, “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?” He rests his hand on Dan’s shoulder before walking to the front desk, starting a conversation with the receptionist as he organises the reserved books resting on the shelves.

“Yeah,” Dan whispers to the table, to the empty space. He hopes Phil will keep that promise, too.

-

“How’s the life of lover boy going, then?”

Dan rolls his eyes as Chris strolls in, followed shortly by PJ, who’s bearing the same expression as Dan.

He should never have given Chris the spare key. His uni housemates are barely home - either crashing at someone else’s, partying or working - and Chris and PJ take this as a liberty to visit Dan whenever. He can’t pretend he isn’t glad. At least it keeps him on his toes: Chris hasn’t mastered the art of knocking quite yet.

“Goodbye, Chris.”

“Well that’s just rude.”

“You didn’t knock,” Dan continues.

“We’re working on that one,” PJ responds, in way of an apology.

Dan’s glare is fixed on his laptop, to which Chris shakes his head in disgust.

“The youth of today, Peej, I’m telling you.”

“Fuck you,” Dan states.

“Language! Honestly, PJ, how do I cope with this?”

“You don’t, Chris, I know. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I just thought we raised him better than this.” Chris rests a hand on his forehead, swooning under faux-despair.

“Incredible,” Dan remarks through gritted teeth. “Why aren’t you taking drama?”

“I’m multi-talented,” replies Chris, in an American accent that transforms Dan’s fake grimance into a real one.

“Stop.”

“But, seriously, how’s it going?” PJ presses.

Dan shrugs, pulls a face. “Are we really having this conversation?”

“Yes.”

Dan acquiesces with another eye roll. “Fine, I guess. You were right, like - yeah, fine.”

“So you’re okay?”

“I don’t know, Peej,” Dan says hopelessly, hand carding through his hair as he finally looks at them. “It’s all fucked up, okay? Always will be.”

“You can only act normal.” Dan raises his eyebrows at that. It’s not the first time he’s heard the _be yourself_ spiel. “You know what I mean. Unsuspicious, and it’ll be okay.”

“No, that’s not what we want!” Chris looks up from the box he’s freely browsing. He continues with fake grandeur, “We want laughter and flirting and heated scenes with declarations of love -”

“He has a girlfriend,” Dan objects, an indignant tone to his voice due to Chris’ flamboyancy.

“And him deciding to leave her for you,” Chris finishes.

“You’ve got to be joking. He’s joking,” Dan says and looks to PJ.

“He’s joking.”

“It’s a no.” Dan looks back to Chris.

“You’re boring,” Chris whines. He continues flicking through the box in a sulk, then stops, bringing out a disk. “Actually, I retract that statement. You have Mario Kart?” he asks.

“Of course.”

“I haven’t played in ages,” he enthuses.

“Neither have I,” PJ says, “but it’s gonna take twenty rounds for you to win one race, and we don’t have time for that.”

“Can you even have twenty rounds?” Dan adds.

“It’s only twenty because I have to get used to playing again,” Chris defends. “Can we play at some point?”

“Yeah,” Dan accepts, looking across at PJ, who also nods.

Chris rocks back on his heels. “We should make a thing of it.”

“Um. Sure.”

“Are Saturday and Sunday good?”

“How long are you intending to spend on this?” Dan questions.

“As long as it takes for victory, Daniel. One cannot give up one’s title,” Chris replies. “And it won’t just be for Mario Kart; I’m thinking pizza and drink and staying up ‘til three am.”

“There’s no way that this can be a good idea,” Dan sighs. He’s up for it, though, he knows he is.

“It may just be you with the alcohol,” PJ comments, and Chris just shrugs.

“More for me, then. So, you in?” He looks around at the two of them.

“Okay, sure,” PJ agrees, Dan following suit.

“You could invite Phil,” Chris teases.

“Oh, fuck off - what are you? Twelve?”

“It wouldn’t be bad idea, actually,” PJ cuts in. “I mean, he’s our friend, most importantly. The least we could do is invite him to something out of his workplace. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dan says. “Sounds like fun!” He’ll allow himself to agree with this only if he keeps up his sarcastic stance.

“That’s sorted, then.” Chris grins as he sits back down. “We can order pizza ‘n’ shit, you’ve got the game. We can have it here, right?”

“Yeah,” Dan confirms, attention turned to his laptop again.

“Cool. Can I bring that drink -”

“Are you sure about that? You get pissed off at Mario Kart as it is,” PJ interrupts.

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It really is.”

“You can’t prove nothing.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll invite Phil,” Dan announces suddenly. “I’ll invite him Friday.”

“Great,” PJ says.

“I’m getting excited for this.” Chris rubs his hands together.

“It’s pizza and Mario Kart, of course you are,” Dan says dismissively, and PJ laughs.

There’s a break in conversation, filled with the click of Dan’s laptop and the vibrating of PJ’s phone (“ _someone’s popular,_ ” Chris comments).

“Did you come here for any other reason?” Dan asks eventually.

“To steal your video games,” Chris replies flippantly, slotting a different disk into the console. Dan rolls his eyes, but places his laptop aside and joins PJ as he huddles around Chris and the screen. The next few hours will, almost certainly, be lost to the game and spent laughing at the numerous times Chris will get himself killed.

-

They’ve started putting the Christmas lights up. Dan’s always found it stupid how early they do it, but they’re up now, strung along shop signs and lampposts like waterfall necklaces of glass, and their switching on date was the second of November. The Christmas adverts will be coming soon, and Dan doesn’t particularly like how they stretch Christmas out thin.

The benefit of all this, he decides as Phil grins at him when he enters the shop, will be the Christmas drinks.

“Hey,” Dan says as he sits opposite Phil.

“Hi,” Phil says, greeting him with a refreshing expression of happiness.

“You’re here early,” Dan comments. There’s a half empty cup of coffee going stone cold in front of Phil, several sepia circles amalgamating on the table top.

“I wanted to make sure I was on time. Make it up to you.” He stops. Both fidget.

“I got your drink.” Phil pushes the cup towards Dan, whose newly-found smile has stretched past his ears and half way towards the moon.

“Thank you.” Dan takes a sip of the much needed warm liquid. Outside, cold air trickles over the pavements like chlorine gas, the sky clouded over, and the street’s occupants wrapped in scarves and bulky coats.

“So, how long have you been writing for?” Dan asks before taking another sip of the liquid, watching Phil over the brim of the cup.

“Why all the questions about me?” he counters.

“I like the idea of you being a writer,” Dan admits. “You remind me of one.”

“How come?” Phil’s smiling shyly - Dan would dare to say slyly.

“I just want to slap you most of the time.”

“I’m touched, Dan, thank you.”

“It’s true.”

The conversation dies down, and Dan slinks back down into his seat. Drawing his finger through the coffee spills, he keeps his head bowed.

They sit like that for a moment, silent in understanding. At the start, it seems awkward, but slowly Dan relaxes and enjoys the solace his company has granted.

“I started when I was seven,” Phil begins unexpectedly. Dan looks up, and perhaps his eyes are shining, and perhaps Phil smiles in response as he continues, “It was the classic six page long story thing which I grew out of. But then I took double English at A-Level, I think so I could do something business-like but I don’t know, anyway, before I know it I’m taking a combined Creative Writing and English Lit degree and buying notebooks by the dozen. I have way too many notebooks,” he adds as an afterthought.

“That’s cool. It suits you.”

“I couldn’t picture myself doing anything else, if I’m honest.”

At least one of them has confidence in what they’re doing.

“Would you be able to write something - like, now?” Dan asks. Probably because the idea cheers him up, and it’s a good distraction. If Dan does it to quell any personal curiosities, that’s no one’s business but his own.

“What about?” Phil takes the napkin Dan pushes towards him.

“Me,” Dan says, and he tries to pass it off with an arrogant, challenging look.

“I could,” Phil teases, coy as he fiddles with the napkin. “But nothing I would want someone to read.” He passes the napkin back. Dan takes it with a weak smile, his pulse quickening.

But, it’s probably because he’s not good at first drafts, something like that, and it’s not worth a rocketing heart beat. None of this is.

( _Stupid,_ he tells himself. _So stupid._ )

“But enough about me,” Phil switches topics. “What about you? What did you want to do? What do you want to be?”

“This and that.” _Nothing._ “I wanted to be a writer, once, but doesn’t every kid?”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not valid.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t do it, anyway. It’s not for me.”

“Well, what _is_ for you?”

“Hmm.” He clears his throat. “Oh, I just remembered: are you free Saturday?”

“I think so, why?”

“We’re having this Mario Kart thing - Chris’ idea, not mine - and I wondered if you wanted to come? It’ll probably be overnight and, uh, it’s fine if you can’t.”

“No, I’d love to. I haven’t played it with a group of friends in a while.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_ , Dan.”

“Great! I’ll -”

“You’ll message me, I know, I know,” but Phil’s grinning, and just before he leaves, he tries to balance his coffee cup on Dan’s head. It receives several odd looks from Dan, but he knows it’s meant to be a comforting gesture, so leaves it be.

-

_my house (you know where /that/ is)_

_you can bring food, like, if you want_

_(chris is bringing drink. bring your sedating kit.)_

_9pm to whenever idek_

_be there or be fucking square_


	4. chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mario kart.

Dan decides that, at this precise moment, he hates how early the nights begin. The darkness tumbles in by four, the sky quickly transforming from its brisk blue to the dusty black that is shut out by Dan’s blinds. He wouldn’t mind, normally: the night sky is, as he’s told Chris many a time, _‘his aesthetic’ -_ and he was only half joking. But it makes it seem like it’s nine already, which is utterly unfair on Dan’s part. The loss of battery on his iPod is likely down to his incessant time checking; his work is periodically interrupted by checks that he’s cleaned something properly. By the time the doorbell rings for the first time, his kitchen counter has probably been cleaned three times, the batteries in the remotes checked four times, and his bed checked for dirty clothing twice, at least.

“This is for you, picked it up on the way.” Chris hands the leaflet to Dan before making his way through. ‘ _For lonely or broken hearts_ ’, it reads, and Dan rolls his eyes.

“Please say you didn’t go too out of your way to find that,” he calls, dropping it into the nearest bin before returning to his room. “It wasn’t even funny.”

Chris is putting down his belongings as Dan walks in. “I thought it was hilarious,” he replies, earning another eye roll from Dan as he sits himself heavily down on the bed.

“No PJ with you, then?”

“We’re not joined at the hip, you know.”

“You could be brothers.”

“If we were, we all know I got all the good looks,” Chris states, and Dan laughs, warmly but brusquely.

“Where should I put these?” Chris lifts a plastic bag filled halfway with glass bottles: cheap cider, beer and vodka.

“You didn’t actually bring those,” Dan mutters. “In the fridge,” he says more clearly.

“Cool.” Chris salutes in thanks and leaves as the doorbell rings again. Dan jumps up, yelling an _I bloody hope that pun wasn’t intended_ as he does so.

He clatters down the stairs and draws in a breath of air before opening the door. “Hi, Peej,” he gasps.

“Hi.” PJ grins warmly back, stepping inside. There’s a small bag on his back and a sketchbook hooked under his arm. “Marathon go well?”

“Ha, fuck you,” Dan retorts, resting on the banister as they ascend to Dan’s room again.

“I was only asking after your well being.”

“My well being does not need your asking after it.”

They reach the door just as there’s another knock.

“I’d better get that,” he says, backtracking. “You’ll be alright?”

“We’ll be fine. You won’t be gone long at all.”

“Okay. Behave.” He shoots Chris a look before turning.

“Should say the same to you,” Chris calls back. Dan ignores him.

Dan fumbles with the door in his haste, but eventually succeeds and swings the door open.

“Hi, Phil.” He smiles in relief, stepping aside as Phil beams at him, “Come on, loser.”

“Right. Thanks.” Phil grins. His blue button up is tucked underneath his coat, and Dan spares it a second too long of attention as he shuts the door.

“Glad you could make it.”

They start to walk along the hall, Dan waiting patiently for Phil to kick off his shoes before continuing.

“I’m glad to be here.” Phil nudges Dan’s shoulder with his own.

“Gross.”

“Well that’s rude.”

“You’ve got to be emotionless if you want to be a real warrior, Phil.”

A scoff latches in Phil’s throat.

“I brought you this, by the way,” Phil announces, “To say thanks - but that’s too emotional, so fuck you, have this.” He smiles nervously, carefully taking out a tupperware box from a plastic bag and handing it to Dan. “It’s, uh, cheesecake,” Phil explains as Dan opens it up. “I don’t know if you’ll like it -”

“It looks amazing,” Dan compliments incredulously, almost laughing. “And I’m sure it’ll taste even more so.”

“You sure it’s okay?”

“Yes. We’d better put it away for now, though.”

“Good idea,” Phil nods. Dan smiles and leads him to the kitchen. “I know it’s a bit cheesy.”

“You just completely ruined the sentiment,” Dan says. Taking the box from the bag, he walks over to the fridge while Phil leans against the counter. “I’ll eat it soon, but we probably won’t have a chance to today, because - well…” He’s opened the fridge to reveal the alcohol Chris has brought. “Chris’ idea, not mine,” he repeats to Phil. He starts walking out again, and Phil follows.

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Phil offers him a side glance.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited; we’re not having any now. No drinking and driving, isn’t that right?” He directs the question at Chris and PJ as he and Phil return to his room. PJ has found a home on the bed amongst a plethora of pillows, Chris fiddling with the Wii as he replies with a jaunty, “Yes! We’re not the illegal type.”

“Good, because we’re doing it for your benefit.” PJ prods Chris with his foot. “He can barely drive straight as it is,” he explains to Phil.

“Can’t he? Oh, God.”

“Right? Learner drivers, can’t deal with them.”

“This is just a game, remember,” Dan interrupts, seating himself on the floor against the bed, beckoning Phil to sit next to him.

“Can I just say,” Chris begins, stretching into a standing position, stepping backwards and taking a seat - and pillow - beside PJ, “that I think you are highly underestimating my skills.” He finishes working through the Wii menu and challenges Dan with a look thrown sideways.

“Oh?” Dan raises his eyebrows.

“Prove it,” Phil confronts from beside Dan.

The TV chirps out the infamous Mario cheer, and Chris looks to the TV and back, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I declare a tournament, one vs one; first to three. Winners play each other.”

“And what does the winner get?” PJ inquires.

“Pride. Boasting rights. Though I don’t know why you care - I’m going to win, after all.”

Dan selects the two player option, and the game starts to load in a series of bleeps and a burst of song.

“Bring it on, Kendall.”

Their four races are half Chris driving into another disaster, and half appalling trash talk accompanied by petty insults. Dan didn’t know it was possible to fail spectacularly at both, but Chris has just driven off the edge just as he got a _Bullet Bill,_ and the ‘your mum’ joke he’s just made must be the fifth one this evening, so he’s been proved wrong. Each exclaimed jibe is received hand in hand with Phil’s laughter at how pathetic they sound. Though both argue that the use of this talk is completely insincere and for comedic value only - which, Dan points out, is successful - it is evident that an edge of competition builds as they go along.

“I didn’t see you overtake me, Chris,” Dan says, astounded. Chris is still focused on Waluigi’s Gold Mine, controlling the remote with random movements. “Oh, wait, no, it’s because I’m lapping you!”

“Not my fault that the gold mushrooms are useless if there’s nothing to stop you falling off these bloody tracks,” Chris retaliates, another noise of annoyance bursting as he fails to dodge a red shell.

Presently, Phil is, for the most part, silent at Dan’s side. It’s not that he’s gone quiet out of sorrow: he’s settled into a content calmness, eyes keen and breath gentle. He laughs and when Dan looks across at him, his lips are carved into a smile like quartz; he’s reclining against the bed and Dan’s elbow keeps poking Phil, knees touching - he could still see the screen comfortably if he shuffled to the right, but he doesn’t, and Phil doesn’t seem bothered.

Dan wins.

“As I said, I haven’t played in years,” Chris says with small exaggeration.

“You could never play, Chris,” PJ points out.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Chris shoves him in a friendly manner before handing him the remote.

“I’ll apologise in advance, Phil,” PJ says as the game loads, “I’m all for teamwork and sportsmanship, but when it comes to this, I take no prisoners.”

“I understand. I’m not much different.” Phil has to crane his neck to talk to PJ. Not that that matters at all to Dan.

“Toad? Really?” Dan questions, unimpressed, when Phil selects his character.

“What? He’s cute.”

“Oh my God.”

“You’ve got to admit it, Dan.”

“I really don’t.”

-

Phil and PJ’s game is considerably quieter than its predecessor, spare PJ’s yells of frustration and joy and Phil’s yelps when he’s taken out by another obstacle. The competition is close, but Phil ends up victorious.

“So I choose my friends well, then?” Dan asks as he takes the remote PJ is wielding.

“We may not be friends much longer.”

“Oh, _ouch._ ” Dan clutches at his chest with his free hand. “Do you need some ideas for intimidating talk, Phil?”

“Go away.”

Whenever Phil’s Kart ends up in trouble, Dan cackles as Phil pouts. The fact that his kart faces death a few times, too, is something he chooses to ignore for the benefit of his case, fastidiously focusing on the race and boasting to his opponent.

They’re so evenly matched that the game drags out to the fifth race. After two laps of their positions swapping back and forth, Phil has pulled out in front, Dan a fair way behind and taking second place. Phil’s suddenly knocked out by a blue shell as he’s jumping a chasm, sending him tumbling into the deep space of Rainbow Road. Phil huffs in despair, Dan laughing as his own kart approaches.

“Dan!”

“What? That wasn’t even me!”

Phil looks across at him, and Dan just has time to wonder why his face has lit up in inspiration before Phil has lept into his vision and practically onto his lap. He has no time to worry about that, though, because Phil is completely obstructing his view, and, despite a few protests and attempts at moving Phil, he remains in position. Dan, predictably, is sent to the same fate as Phil; Phil regains his lead and cries a _whoop!_ as he wins, slipping away from Dan again.

“I won! I actually won!”

“No you fucking didn’t,” Dan says. He starts to call behind him, “Judges! I want to prosecute for obstruction during play. Judges!” he implores desperately for Chris and PJ.

“Hey!” Phil objects, “You can’t do that!”

“I take law, I know what I can and can’t fucking do.” Dan points his finger at Phil. “Guys!”

“You’d think he’s already drunk,” PJ remarks to Chris.

“Tell me about it. Alright, alright,” Chris grumbles. “Bad Phil,” he rebukes pathetically before leaning back again.

“So who wins?” PJ asks.

“We could have a rematch,” Phil suggests hopefully.

“No way,” Chris butts in before Dan can respond, “I’m not sitting through another race of that.”

“Okay,” PJ says, “so I suppose Dan wins from Phil’s disqualification?”

Dan laughs triumphantly. “What should the punishment be?” he asks, jabbing Phil in the ribs.

“Ah, none of that,” Phil swats his hand away, “I’ll report you. I know my rights.”

“What then?”

“Haven’t I been punished enough?” he whines.

“Nah, mate,” Dan answers, twisting to talk to Chris. “He’s getting no pizza.”

“I like it.”

“This isn’t fair. I already have to spend the night with you.” Phil flops back forebodingly.

“We can’t starve him,” points out PJ. Everyone ignores Phil’s repetitive groans of complaint.

“Hm, true.” Dan looks back to Phil, uses his knee to get his attention. “I guess you get off lightly, then.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Yes, but,” Dan says, “you still lost, so…”

“For God’s sake.”

“Maybe it should be Dan we punish,” PJ ponders, squinting at Dan, “before he gets too cocky.”

“That could work, actually,” Phil agrees.

“I second that,” Chris adds. They all close their gazes in on Dan.

“Stop bullying me!”

“ _I’m winning, I’m winning! I can play with my face!”_ Phil mocks.

“Stop _bullying_ me,” Dan repeats to the laughing trio. “I hate you all.”

-

“Whose idea was it to do this teams thing, again?” PJ asks, voice cool yet cutting as he battles on screen to stay in front. The arrangement of the four hasn’t changed much, except for Chris’ lolling on his front and a small collection of pizza boxes scattered on the floor.

“I believe it was Phil’s,” Dan answers, eyes fixated on the screen as he recalls the past minutes. “I don’t get what the problem is, though, I mean - yes, Phil!” Dan is interrupted with an oddly enthusiastic celebration as Phil overtakes another kart, joining Dan near the front.

“Yeah, well,” PJ says, “you aren’t with a certain someone.” He shoots a glare to the man beside him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Chris says, watching the screen and juggling the buttons of the remote as if he’s still racing and not waiting as, on-screen, his kart is being lifted to safety by the - Dan can’t remember what the fuck it’s called.

“That’s the fourth time today,” PJ says, regarding Chris’ situation.

Chris rocks his shoulders in time with his kart, “It is Rainbow Road.”

“Some people just can’t take the pressure,” Dan agrees hopelessly.

“No pressure,” Phil amends. “It’s space. There’s no gravity.”

“You’re an idiot,” Dan states, and his voice raises in panic as he continues, “Jesus Christ, an idiot who needs to concentrate instead of making stupid puns.”

-

“Did you know that Nintendo were going to make an inflatable crocodile kart?”

Dan stares at him, “That’s not true.”

“It is!”

“Phil, I know you’re lying.”

“You can’t prove it. They could have; you never know what they get up to in Nintendo.”

“If they did, they should have gone ahead with it, to be honest. I’d choose it.”

-

“Oh look, what a surprise,” Dan intones, the results flashing on-screen revealing that Dan and Phil’s team have won by a mile.

“It was a close match, guys, congrats,” Phil says.

“I’ll take this moment to point out that I have won more races than you,” PJ objects, “he’s the real loser here.” He juts his head towards Chris.

“Excuse me.”

“Chris, I could have done better without you. One vs. two.”

“Are you sure about that?” Chris asks, refusing to acknowledge his failures - though, Dan’s sure he’s just trying to irk PJ.

“I would have had computer generated characters who know how to not lose by a lap, so, yes.”

“So rude,” Chris sniffs.

“I guess we’re done with this, then?” Phil cuts in.

“Yes; quick, turn it off before someone gets killed,” Dan answers.

“That person is probably you,” PJ says from above, and Dan narrows his eyes at him as Chris jumps up.

“I’ll get the drinks,” he calls. Dan presses himself against the bed out of the way as Chris stumbles past, and shakes his head in disdain.

“It’s the only reason he’s here,” Phil says, regarding Dan’s mild despair.

“You’re telling me.” He stands and stretches, making sure to avoid placing a foot in a pizza box.

“You’ve just got to hope you’ve got enough Paracetamol,” PJ grins.

“I stocked up.” Dan lets his arms drop, then frowns, “I think.”

“Forgetting things, and you’re not even drunk yet,” Phil teases. Dan prods him with his toe.

“Shut up.”

-

The only light in the room is the lamp on the desk, the bulb’s weak amber just reaching the group. They’re sat in a crooked, lazy circle, a discarded game of Monopoly pushed behind them and slim bottles entwined in their clumsy fingers or pressed to their lips. Coca Cola cans litter the space between their legs, neck to neck with other miscellaneous cans and bottles they’ve scavenged from their fridges. Dan’s spare hand is lax on the carpet, and it’s brushed against Phil’s too many times and his heart has sped up too fast for it to be healthy. The drink has messed up his brain, but only slightly; his glass is still half full. Beside him, Phil’s isn’t much emptier. There are little sparks in his senses, everything is seen with a small lilt, and when anyone speaks, diacritical marks are drawn in the air; lethargy is splashed across his eyelashes.

“Space is so _big_ ,” PJ whines from opposite Dan, head resting on the bed.

“I’m not drunk enough to talk about this, Peej,” Dan objects.

“But it’s _so biiig,_ ” PJ repeats, not quite meeting Dan’s eyes when he turns his head, “It takes so long to get to the fucking _moon_ , let alone _Neptune_. I want to go to Neptune.”

“I want to go to Uranus.”

“Shut _up,_ Chris,” Phil interrupts, taking the words out of PJ’s mouth as he throws a plastic house at Chris. Chris laughs loudly and ducks as the game piece soars towards him.

“It’s so big,” PJ continues, oblivious, “that there must be aliens.”

“We can’t be the only ones alive out here,” Dan agrees, gesturing around them with a wild circle.

“I bet they’ve found aliens. The Mars rover and Rosetta and Apollo 11, I bet they saw aliens then but didn’t tell usss. Roswell was just a _cover up._ ”

Phil raises his eyebrows, “Why wouldn’t they tell us?”

PJ waves a hand in the air, “You know the _govern_ ment they always hide things from us and lie and tell us bullshit. Aliens are a close held secret but they _exist_ I know it.” The sentence ends as a mess of consonants, PJ collapsing onto the ground once he’s finished.

“Maybe they have them running farms or something.”

“What, like Alien Labour?” PJ asks.

“Yea _hh_ ,” Phil muses, whimsical.

Chris snorts, “Don’t be _stupid_ , aliens can’t cohabit with _pigs_.”

“I want to see an alien.”

“ _I_ want to see an alien toooo,” PJ agrees.

Dan stops rolling his eyes to ask, “What do aliens look like?” The question spills out, topsy-turvy in front of his furrowed brow.

“Pffft. _Anything_ ,” PJ replies. “They could be blue or orange and they could be small or tall. _Anything_ , Dan.”

Phil laughs, clarion with his eyes squeezed shut and a hand reaching for Dan’s shoulder for support. “A rainbow, glittery alien. _Imagine._ ”

“They could look like _usss_ ,” Chris adds. “I bet there are aliens amongst us. Right now. Yeah, right now. One of you is an alien: it’s not _me_.” His face sparks with an idea, “It’s Phil!”

“No it isn’t!”

“It _is,_ ” Chris insists, leaning forward under the brunt of this new discovery, “I know it is, you can’t lie! The government lie all the time but I see through your bullshit!”

“I am _so_ not an alien!” Phil digs an elbow in Dan’s ribs, “Tell him!”

“You even have the alien-shaped head! Look! You’re so _alien_!” Chris bursts out laughing, cackling with his head thrown back. PJ joins in, and Dan suppresses his own laugh as he says, “Out of all of us, you’re the most likely, with your alien head and weirdness.”

“What’s it like on Mars, Phiiil?” PJ asks.

“ _No_ ,” Phil complains through a laugh, hands held to his face, “This isn’t fair.”

“There, there,” Dan condescends him, pats his shoulder from a distance and wrinkles his nose in faux-disgust.

“Did your rocket ship crash?” Chris yawns.

“Go to sleep, Chris.”

“Nonono, I need to _know._ What happened? Is that your real skin? How big is your ship, Phil?”

“Stop. Dan, tell him to s _top._ ”

Dan takes a few breaths to steady his shaking shoulders, then says, “Go to _sleep_ , Chris.”

“Do aliens need sleep? Are you gonna kidnap usss and take us to your laaab? He’s going to feed us to his sheeep!”

“For fuck’s sake, _Chris_.”

-

It’s as if the room is coloured with black felt tip, a mass of hazy pixels which descend into concaves of grey-scale as Dan blinks away the effects of his phone screen. It’s been just under an hour since he had finally given up on pursuing sleep, fumbling for his phone and scrolling through the web pages for minutes on end - minutes which had since coalesced into puddles of time. His head is weighed down by aching sleep but his mind continues to chatter. He regrets drinking at all, now. As he shifts around, his mind starts to churn with the scraping of a water mill, a tornado in his head which subsides soon enough but never fails to disorientate him for a second. Propping himself up on his elbow, he looks outside to find, to his misfortune, that the sky is just an onslaught of cloud; he finds himself guessing pointlessly where Ursa Major is under the fog and continuously waiting for his hamartia to fall around him.

Dregs of alcohol linger in the air in pungent bursts. The room is warm, heated by four different bodies, with stifling air. He can hear each breath too distinctly for it to be real, and as he casts his gaze over the room, it is almost like he is looking upon a charcoal sketch that blurs under his fingertips. Chris has his limbs strewn over the bed, which everyone else was willing not to sleep in; PJ pacific in the corner except for the rise and fall of his chest; Phil beginning to curl in on himself. They have all complied to sleep, the intoxicant leaving them in an easy slumber.

Or so he thinks, because there’s a soft voice in the midst of thoughts and it’s saying _you’re still awake?_

There’s a silence like midnight snapped in two.

“No.”

“You’re not funny.” Phil’s whispering, but his words aren’t harsh on his tongue and Dan can hear his smile. He turns over with a clandestine sigh, finding himself grinning, too, as their gazes meet. But it’s only slight, the beginnings of a crescent moon or the waves of a lake playing on his lips.

“Am I?” he challenges. The smile that adorns Phil’s lips widens, and in the cluster of dark matter it looks like there is space dust and gas clouds pinned to his irises, collapsing in on each other and scattered like planetary nebulae.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Oh.”

Eyes growing more accustomed to the dark, Dan starts studying his fingernails and the rilles in the sheet, fully aware that Phil is examining him.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“You know what I mean.”

The smile has been replaced by a caring, watchful expression.

“It’s nothing,” Dan says as they loop back to the start of the conversation and he has to try to analyse his sleeping habits. “A regular occurrence. Don’t worry about it: go to sleep.” His eyes meet Phil’s with the intention of proving his point, but Phil just stares back. Dan dares him to persevere.

He perseveres.

“Come with me,” he announces, standing up and waiting for Dan to do the same.

“What?”

“Trust me on this one, come on.”

Dan extracts himself from the bed linen with an ungracious sigh.

“You’re leading me around my own house.” It’s somewhere between a statement and a question. Dan’s voice rises as they move away from the bedroom. Phil leads with cautious staggers, feeling for door frames and edges of walls, but he does it all with a clear goal.

“I am. Kitchen’s this way, right?” he replies, reaching the bottom of the stairs and pointing to one door.

“Yes. If I get murdered or some shitty thing like that, I blame you.”

“If you get murdered, chances are I’ll be the murderer,” Phil points out, “And anyway, you’re not going to stub your toe.”

“Right, I totally trust you.”

He opens the door, hand resting on the light switch as he turns back to Dan.

“You ready for an onslaught of light?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dan mutters. Phil lets the light click, the kitchen flooding with light that jabs at their retinas. Phil laughs, eyes bleary and watery, as Dan covers his own.

“This better be good, you realise.”

“I can make no promises. I just know that if you can’t sleep, there’s no point just lying there, doing nothing. Well, sometimes. I don’t know.” The eye contact breaks. Phil starts looking around the kitchen. “Got any hot chocolate?”

“Er, no, I don’t think so.”

“This’ll do,” Phil says. He pulls a bottle of milk out of the fridge and knocking the door shut with his hip. “Does your microwave work?”

“Well, yes.” Dan blinks hard. “At least, since I last checked.”

“Great,” says Phil as he pours a mug of milk. The microwave opens with a clang, and Phil swiftly sets the time to 1:00 before switching it on.

“You figured your way ‘round that one quickly.”

“I’ve had to work many microwaves in my time. It becomes a profession, I promise you.” Phil smiles again, and as the microwave beeps the lights flicker.

“I should really get the lights fixed,” Dan muses.

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take this,” Phil hands the drink to Dan, who wraps his hands around the piping ceramic.

“Warm beverages are meant to help you sleep, apparently,” he continues.

“I wasn’t questioning it.”

“I know,” Phil assures. “It’s just….yeah. I didn’t even ask for permission to use your milk.” He ambles over to where Dan’s leaning on the counter, joining him as he drinks.

“You’re fine, don’t worry,” Dan assuages. Phil nods.

“I suppose I’m a cereal thief now,” he says solemnly. Dan goes to nod and agree, before he realises.

“Seriously? Wow. That doesn’t even work.”

In response, Phil just laughs.

The window is a small, squat rectangle of glass squeezed between the cupboards. It doesn’t have a blind, and so they stare out of it at a loss of anything else to do as Dan’s leg swings, to and fro.

“The sky isn’t very exciting tonight,” Phil says suddenly, “The stars and the night air can calm me down sometimes, but today it’s just boring.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

“Over-sharing’s my new thing. ‘Cause this, right now, is the height of my social calendar.”

Dan laughs heartily, shaking his head. He takes another sip of milk, and his eyes trail back to the window.

“I never know whether to feel scared or awestruck. I mean, we’re looking into all this, and it’s stunning but also fucking huge. Isn’t it hinting at our doom? But then, isn’t it also our beginning? We are the Big Bang, kind of. I don’t know.”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

Phil laughs. “I just feel cheated. The Milky Way’s out there, somewhere.” Phil waves a hand towards the window, “You wouldn’t know it.”

Dan hums in agreement, plays his lower lip through his teeth. The china rings under his fingernails. “What’s the time?”

“Three forty nine.”

“Okay.”

“It’s on the microwave.”

Dan’s face breaks out into a smile as he laughs. “Oh!”

“Idiot.” Phil rolls his eyes as he grins. “You done?”

“Yeah.” Dan adds the mug to the growing collection of unwashed cutlery by the sink and tugs his sweater over his palms before they begin to make their way back up stairs.

“You’re lucky to have a good student house,” Phil remarks. On the wall, their shadows clash.

“Mhm.”

“You can sleep on your bed, if it helps. I don’t mind, and the others won’t.”

“Have you seen Chris? He’ll be like a disgruntled walrus if I wake him up. I’m okay on the floor. My brain is slowly becoming the epitome of exhaustion every second, I assure you.”

“Okay, well, if you need to, you can move closer. To me, I mean. Or something. I mean, I know company can help, um,” Phil stammers.

“I’m fine. But thanks for the offer.” Dan’s cheeks are splashed red. He yawns. “See?”

They clamber into their beds, bid each other gentle goodnights, and after Phil turns over, Dan stares at the back of his head until he falls asleep. And if Dan does shift his bed closer once Phil’s breathing has steadied - well, that’s nobody’s business.

-

The following morning, Dan pulls his hand back from the space between them as soon as Phil starts to stir. His arm has gone dead from lying on it, but he only notices now.

“My head has exploded,” is the first thing said between the four of them, Chris’ voice pained as he throws himself back down on the pillow.

“You still have both eyes and both ears, you’re fine,” PJ comments, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Dan and Phil follow suit, Phil sending Dan a secret smile which he returns willingly. When Dan’s gaze travels on round, PJ raises his eyebrows. Dan shakes his head, biting back a smile.

Dan _has_ stocked up, and he shoves two paracetamol tablets into Chris’ hand along with a glass grabbed from the side of the sink; he’s rinsed it twice, it should be fine. The glass sparkles in the morning sunlight pouring through the window.

As he waves them off, his spare hand clenches round itself, clutching air.

-

_his eyes are the colour of carrion wood in the dark and if the pavement were to fall away under his feet would he fly or fall? her eyes are the colour of watercolour lilacs in the light and if her voice were to escape her would she go to the end of the world to retrieve it?_

-

True to his word, Phil starts leaving little tales on the post-it notes he leaves in books. A few lines of prose, a few sentences capturing a garden at twilight. Random skits that Dan finds himself looking forward to, smiling as he reads them, treasuring them.

After the first note, Dan messages Phil, a photo attached to the text, “ _is this what i think it is_?”

Phil replies a few minutes later, “ _i said i would, didn’t i?_ ”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Dan texts back, “ _you did_.”

There are several notes scattered through each book, and Dan figures that Phil must write them on impulse, then stock them up over time - Dan’s not a superhuman reader, after all. Some are stories, others more like a monologue, and he starts to refer to them as peculiar poetry. They reflect how Phil’s feeling, Dan finds; and they make him smile, frown, or stare profoundly for a moment or two.

-

_they talk about how the sun loved the moon so much he died every night so she could breathe, but i don’t want to hear about that. i want to hear about happy love and platonic love, family love and the love between a manager and an artist. (maybe i just want to watch Love Actually)._

-

Some just make him laugh.

The post-it collection on his wall is growing, and when they start to flutter down, Dan buys a pack of blu-tack from the nearest Poundland, and sticks them back up.

He doesn’t mention it. They don’t mention it. He just smiles a little when he returns the book with the first notes, and Phil flushes and beams in return.

-

_holding hands is like finger hugs and i really want to have a hand hug with you_


	5. chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> phil reads to little kids and dan helps him

A week or so later, Dan enters the library with nothing but time to kill. The library itself is fairly busy, he realises, with people occupying chairs and scanning shelves. A quick sweep of the space confirms that Phil is far enough away that Dan can’t be bothered to find him, so he wanders to the front desk. His frequent visits have meant he has some acquaintance with Phil’s co-workers, and he can just about recognise the tumble of unruly brown hair.

“Um, hi,” he clears his throat, “Freya, isn’t it? Sorry, do you know where Phil is?”

The girl spins to face him, and she smiles in a genuine, friendly way.

“Hi! Sure I can, he’s just over there,” she responds, gesturing to a far part of the library.

“Okay, thanks,” he says, and her lips curl up again as she pushes her hair back and returns to her work.

Turning away, Dan heads to where she had pointed, a frown tracing his lips as he notes the ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ mural painted high on the wall. _What’s he doing over there?_

The children’s area, much like every other section of the library, is shielded by a number of bookshelves, edged in by books alternating between thick and thin. Remembering that Phil does, in fact, work at the library, he edges around silently, not wanting to interrupt him, whatever he may be doing.

A number of small heads are turned away from Dan as he slides around the corner of the last shelf, instead peering up at Phil. The librarian is seated on one of the leather-like blocks scattered around the area, ankles crossed and his arms holding open a large printed story book. Dan spots a pen hooked over the pocket of his shirt.

Phil’s face lights up considerably in a welcoming smile, and his expression shapes his words as he continues to read. He’s talking about a whale and a ladybird, and despite how the words are targeted at those below five years of age, Phil’s words carry an enthralling edge, interesting in a way Dan can’t quite determine. Dan hovers, still, until Phil nods him in, beckoning him forward as the glossy pages reflect the large lights above them. Dan takes a seat some metres behind him, perching on a beanbag and feeling a collection of curious gazes fixed on him. He grins enthusiastically in greeting; a few giggle nervously, and they all return to the raconteur.

Phil, Dan can’t help but decide as he watches the story unfold, is an incredible storyteller, and although Phil is perfectly suited to being a writer, he could easily work with children. It’s a wonder that, in the dozens of times he’s been to the library, he hasn’t seen him work in the children’s area once. Phil’s voice conforms to the different characters and tones, believable excitement joining his words as he elaborates and dramatises when necessary, doing each to the right degree. He involves the audience, as well, and Dan’s heart swells at how clear their youthful adoration for him is as they read the sentences along with him. Dan’s at just the right angle to witness how Phil’s smile pulls at his cheeks, and how his eyes crinkle when he’s accompanied by his child audience. It’s perfect, because Phil can’t see the stupid grin which is bound to be plastered on Dan’s own face.

Having put his headphones in at the beginning to entertain himself, Dan now surreptitiously switches his music off and stashes his headphones away again. Instead, he listens to Phil’s reading. At this moment, it doesn’t matter that the stories are crafted for children.

“Shall we have another one?” Phil asks, snapping the book shut. There’s an enthusiastic agreement, and Phil’s “You drive a hard bargain,” is betrayed by his smile. He picks another up from a small pile, flicking through before twisting round.

“I think we’ll need Dan for this one.”

“What?” Dan refocuses quickly.

“I was wondering if you could do some of the voices for me?” Phil simpers. Dan throws him a look, but there’s a group of bright eyes watching him, and Phil’s using his own wide, blue eyes to beg. He’s secretly thrilled to be asked, but he isn’t about to give that away, and so stands slowly.

“Sure,” he agrees.

“Great!” Phil replies, and Dan’s only slightly comforted at how his smile is now genuine. He lets the strap of his bag fall to the ground as he pulls up another cube up next to Phil and into the direct sight of the children.

“Did you plan this?” he mutters.

“How could I?” Phil replies, but he’s smiling. He turns back to the audience before Dan can reply, “Are we ready?”

There’s a high pitched, eager _yes!_ as a reply.

Dan reads when Phil instructs him to do so, adopting a couple of characters. He gets into it like how he used to, hand gestures wild and illustrating the tale in the air in front of them, though he insists the best thing about it is the reaction from the kids, and not the pleasant surprise readable in Phil’s features. At the end, Dan slips back to his bean bag - accompanied by a sweet chorus of _goodbye_ s which is horribly cute - so Phil can conclude the session. He rests his head on his palm, watching as Phil stands and waves the children back to their parents and guardians. Phil’s still watching and smiling as Dan sidles up beside him.

“So this is your job, too?”

“Hmm?” Phil looks at him and then nods. “Oh, yeah, has been for a few months.”

“I don’t think I’ve noticed you doing it before.”

“Maybe because it’s 10 o’clock on a Saturday.”

Dan’s face contorts into feigned hurt. “What are you insinuating, Phil?”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.” Phil’s face is plastered with a larger grin than before as a small girl approaches them, urged on by her parents. She walks in little totters, and hugs Phil’s leg.

“Thank you, Phil.” She cranes her neck to show him a toothy smile.

“That’s alright, Izzy. I’ll see you next week?”

She nods. Dan expects her to leave, so is surprised when she hugs his legs, too. He prevents himself from stumbling back as two arms wrap around his legs, two small hands barely reaching above his knee cap.

“And thank you.” She offers the same grin, and Dan can feel the smile biting into his cheeks as he nods.

“It was a pleasure.”

The pair continue to smile as the rest of the children depart, waving to the parents and carers who bid their farewells.

“As it is before eleven in the morning, what are you doing here?” Phil’s fringe flicks as he turns his attention back to Dan, who shrugs.

“I thought I’d broaden my horizons. I aim to visit at everything time of day.”

“We open at seven, so I doubt it.” Dan gapes at him, before clamping his mouth into a thin line, shaking his head in antipathy.

“Unbelievable.”

“Who?” Phil has started packing and tidying his belongings. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You are unbelievable, Phil Lester.”

“I am also a librarian, storyteller and winner of my school’s Easter Egg design competition. Jack of all trades.”

“But master of none.”

Phil smiles at him as he clutches at his backpack. Dan returns to his beanbag for a final time to gather his own belongings, before joining Phil at the two shelves which close off the Children’s area from the rest of the library. The signs for each group of letters are printed in capitals, and Phil stands between “M-P” and “Q-T”.

“You were really good at that, by the way,” Phil compliments. They start to walk through the library.

“Don’t be so surprised.”

“I only got you to read with me to put you on the spot, if I’m honest,” Phil says, and it would be a sheepish confession if not for his tone and smile.

“Of course you did. But, yeah, I used to read to my little sister every night, so I guess I’ve got some practise.”

“Did you really? That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, I mean she’s nine years younger than me, and she was all pigtails and smiles with teeth missing back then. She would always laugh. She’s not like that anymore,” he finishes. “I- er.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks,” Dan smiles thinly.

(But just thinking about it reminds him. Shutting himself off from her just because he couldn’t be bothered to anymore, ignoring her to the point of yelling at her to go away. It had lead up to that day when she snapped, ignoring him even when _he tried_ to talk to her, and it stung because she was treating him just like how he had treated her. The feud has muted slightly, but it still hangs between them like barbed wire.)

“You alright?” Phil asks through the pause.

“Yeah. Tired, actually,” Dan amends, rubbing his eyes as the lethargy returns.

“Okay. Wait here,” Phil instructs, ducking into the storeroom, grabbing his coat and reappearing.

“It’s the end of my shift, and I was gonna go for a walk. Want to come?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Dan confirms.

“Great,” Phil grins. They exit the library - Phil smiling at the worker at the desk as they do so - and start to walk to the City Gardens.

“Did you want me for anything, by the way?” Phil asks as they turn another corner.

“Oh, no. Just had nothing to do.” It’s only a slight lie.

“Fair enough.”

The morning is cold and fresh, with the sky a sharp blue wired with crystal sunshine. A few beams reflect off Phil’s hair. It’s moderately bright and warm in the light, but cold and damp in the shadow. The grass on either side of the path they’re walking along is a vibrant green from the month’s rainfall, and it’s somewhat a surprise that the park is only populated by a few dog walkers. Everything is serene and still, with the edges soft and sparkling. Dan’s got Phil’s side profile constantly in his vision, so he notices when a suspiciously large smile breaks over his face.

“What?” Dan asks, keeping his eyebrows furrowed even though his lips are twitching. Behind them, a dog barks and there’s a blur of colour as a ball is thrown.

“Just.” Phil pauses. “I’m in one of the best places with one of the best people.”

“Right.” It’s clear Dan doesn’t believe him.

Next, Phil steps back into a analytical silence, and Dan is still trying to formulate an excuse when he speaks again.

“I don’t really get it,” he begins. “I mean, I get the premise. I know it’s common. I guess in a way, I know why. But, I just don’t get how you can think like that. Like, have you ever stepped back and looked at yourself?”

Clearly, they’re looking at two different people.

“Yes. And I am nowhere near what you think I am.” His voice is still muffled, and it sounds wounded and bitter. And he had said he was only tired but tired has been a synonym for sad and fed up for a long while now.

He scrawls “falling” on his forehead in burnt coal; writes “not bothered” on his eyelids, one word to each; holds the word “worthless” between the bumps of his knees, trips over in attempts to keep it there. “I know” rules the complex: he knows.

There’s a cliff drop between them, an apprehension, a vacuum that stops Dan from breathing as Phil passes thoughts behind his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he says eventually. “I think you’re funny and clever and you’re my friend -”

“Phil.” Dan’s voice reaches a spear point, steady and painfully close to a sob. “Don’t bother.”

(He can’t really say why.)

Biting his lip, Phil edges closer, caressing Dan’s lower arm for a second.

“I still don’t understand.”

Dan’s thinking about grades and years and someone who doesn’t love him back.

“Do you know how Van Gogh died?” Dan says instead, because he’d rather through someone else’s story. He’s answering in roundabout ways that are sickeningly close to poetic, and it’s so strangely liberating that he can’t stop.

They’ve moved onto the grass and the damp emeralds depress under his soles.

“Suicide.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. There are sources which suggest that, actually, he was shot by two kids playing cowboy with a gun. They shot him by accident; he claimed it was suicide to protect him.”

“Oh.”

The same solid silence comes back around, and it compresses at Dan’s chest until he can’t help but exclaim, “I’m not worth your care, and I’m not worth fixing.”

Does Dan need fixing? He doesn’t know. A lot of the time, it doesn’t seem like it. Does anyone need fixing, really? Dan looks to Phil: _does he think I need fixing?_

The words remain, untouched, in the air for a few heartbeats, harsh and loud between them. Dan lets out a sigh, “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. But screw that, okay, because I care about you, and you are fucking worth it,” Phil asserts, shockingly and definitely.

Dan’s torso is crumbling and confused and he feels an empty kind of sick.

“Phil, I said already -”

“And I’m saying that you deserve a lot and you’re wonderful and I-”

“ _Phil,_ listen to me.”

“No, Dan, please listen to _me._ My views on this are as valid as yours, right? Just because you don’t believe it, doesn’t mean it’s not true. Like,” he searches for an example, “the world being round: people thought it was flat for ages, but it’s not. And I think you’re great.”

“I don’t think anyone else thinks that. I manage to scare off pretty much everyone I meet - everyone apart from you.” Dan just can’t relent. He’s keeping his eyes fixed on Phil’s as he says this; he’s testing him for doubts and arguments, and he can see all the responses flashing behind his pupils.

This is it. It isn’t crying on someone’s shoulder, nor is it pounding condemnations and derogatories which he cannot escape in the pit of the night. It is a fact easily said, simple as a name and birthday, and only brought up when someone asks for it. Otherwise, it is silent. He knows it’s not right, knows it’s dismal where others are concerned, but why should he stop if it is still something he believes? It may be sad to them and it may be thinking awry, he knows that - and, to put it bluntly, he just doesn’t care.

“The children like you.”

They have stopped walking in the last minute or so, and Dan breaks the eye contact by moving forward again.

“They don’t know me.”

Phil rushes to try and draw level with him again, and he speaks whilst still behind Dan. As if his words could tie a rope out of leaves and pull him back.

“If these flowers could talk I bet they’d say how much they like you,” he calls.

Dan stops, spins to face him. Phil is a step or two away, diagonally behind him, and he’s framed by fluttering amaranth. Face set and sincere, his fingers tighten around the bag he’s left dangling in his hand, the one which was previously bashing against his leg. Paperwhites populate the ground at his feet. The phrase relieves the mood for some reason which Dan can have a stab at guessing, and it sounds like a heartwarming compliment which he is allowed to believe amongst the petals and grass blades. Allowed to believe more than its predecessors. He doesn’t believe it, exactly, but for a second it could come close. Dan tilts his head, and he’s probably giving the fondest smile ever right now, but he can’t find a part of himself to care; it’s making him forget about the unease and anguish spiking his ribs.

“You can tell you’re a writer.”

“Yeah, because the notes weren’t too much of a giveaway,” Phil says, taking the step to rejoin Dan.

“I like your notes. Please don’t stop them,” Dan urges, eyes flicking up from his feet.

“I never wanted to.” Phil’s voice is like the faint hum of traffic Dan can hear through his window; soft and familiar in lace folds, a welcome constant.

Dan smiles back, then clears his throat.

“It’s too early in the morning to be sentimental.”

Phil laughs easily. They fall back into step beside one another.

“You’re a softy at heart.”

“Yeah, right.”

“So you won’t want an ice cream, then?”

“I would want one, actually,” Dan shoots him a glare, “but, Phil, it’s November.”

“And?”

“You are never going to find an ice cream van in winter.”

Phil muses for a second. “True. But I know a place which sells really good chocolate eclairs.”

“Yeah, it’s called Greggs,” Dan quips. Phil’s already starting to hurry down the path, turning back with a bright grin.

“You coming?”

“Unbelievable,” Dan shakes his head as Phil continues to speedwalk.

“Are you coming, though?”

Dan holds eye contact with him for a second, then hoists his bag higher up his arm. Phil still hasn’t seen sense, and his bag thumps against his thigh.

“Of course I am.”

-

_i look at you and see the sun and the moon but i worry that when you look at yourself all you see is the ground_

-

For the past few months, Dan has always had a small stack of books to work through; Phil has started to bring a couple in each week, whether Dan has finished the previous ones or not. The notes start filtering through, the words wrung dry and pasted to post-its with curling edges; the first couple of books only have one or two snippets, but it smoothly escalates to one every other chapter or so, along with the original messages Phil had left when the whole thing started. Dan reads them twice - more, if needed - before letting them flutter to the floor. He’ll pick them up later.

-

The withdrawals return, too. He makes cat cradles out of the sheer memory of them and names them his _Shell Moments_. They are made from apathy and pessimism. He scrunches his eyes shut and he can see crosshatched black, tastes to him of the husk of something wretched and bitter. Standing on the edge of a group and feeling far away; looking for signs to give up; thinking he is being ignored, thinking he is to blame, thinking from every direction of it possible and they all pull him back. Sever, sever, sever, when he needs to stay.

It’s like watching a ship sail away. The gap between you and it lengthens and lengthens; you are alone on the rocky edge, while everyone you know and love is on that boat. This gap is what abandons you from company, cutting you off as you withdraw. There is nothing you can do but watch it go and feel hopelessness bloom in your stomach, ground its roots and trap you. There is the overwhelming sense that you are the one making the chasm.

Except, it’s not like that exactly. Because this ship comes back to shore, just within reach, and you think you’ve made it, you think you’re back - you lift your leg to take a step, hold a hand out, but the deck disappears beneath you again, and you windmill to stop from falling as your heart gives a bathyal lurch. And the sea is not turquoise and shimmering, it is untraversable abyss. The darkness stares back up at you. There seems to be no way across. The gap grows again.

You forget, and each time the ship draws close your hopes dance high like flames. And each time, the path back disintegrates: you are not as close as you thought.

It’s like that.

-

“Okay, so - what exactly is it?” Dan asks, looking from the leaflet in his hands up to Phil.

“Book art. So, like, they cut out shapes and things and turn them into artistic pop-up books.”

“And you’re sure you want to encourage this kind of behaviour?” Dan widens his eyes.

Phil shrugs. “It’s pretty.”

And so he’s left with an invitation on Saturday to a place he’s never been, to see something which Phil clearly likes a lot.

“Only Phil would invite you to a book-art show - whatever one of those is,” Chris comments later.

Dan eyes the leaflet as Chris spins it in his hand. Serifs blur like train tracks - and Dan looks away.

“Yup, only Phil.”

They’re in the library, and Phil has left them for work, but he only departed once he invited Dan to the exhibition at a church hall down the road.

He supposes he should feel honoured that Phil thought to take him. The idea makes Dan prise the leaflet from Chris’ grip and turn the edges to scattered chevrons as he reads it over and over.

“Do you want to go?” PJ asks, and he’s sitting down but Dan feels like he has to crane his neck to meet his gaze. He’s started ripping apart a random piece of paper and he stops his apprehensive tearing, glares at the small snow storm he’s left on the table top.

“It seems interesting.”

“I’m not asking for excuses, Dan; I’m asking if you want to go.”

Dan thinks about art and ink and sharp edges. It would be an excuse for a morning with Phil, an opportunity - for what, exactly, Dan doesn’t know, but it leaves a red feeling in his mouth.

Dan looks up. “Yeah, I do.”

-

Phil returns later. Dan’s trying to annotate a paper, and the ink has seeped through in emaciated orange onto the skeletal lines below.

“Do you want to come?” He nods to the leaflet still folded around Dan’s fingers. “It starts at ten, are you sure you can make it?”

Dan’s Saturday lectures start later in the day - thank fuck for small mercies - so he nods and rolls his eyes.

“Shut up,” he adds for good measure.

“I’ll see you there - but I’ll see you tomorrow first, right?” Phil means their ‘coffee date’ and the fact that he remembers makes Dan’s heart flutter like crackling origami. Dan flashes him a grin.

“Of course.”

They talk for a while longer before parting ways. Or, at least, they try to, because the heavy rain outside becomes apparent as Dan approaches the door, heavy slashes falling onto the pavement. As Chris and PJ have already left, Phil walks with him to the door, and Dan turns to him now.

“Yeah, I think I might wait a while.”

Phil grins, “Well, I’m not complaining.”

-

“This isn’t meant to be a big thing, or anything. It’s not the most magnificent outing. Sorry for dragging you out of bed.”

“You should be; I could be dreaming about holidays right now,” Dan teases. “You didn’t drag me anywhere, don’t worry. If I wanted to be in bed, believe me, I would be,” Dan’s shoes crunch amongst the pebbles of the path. The fact that he doesn’t say why he’s here doesn’t mean it’s not true.

The hall is a splayed-out building landed in the middle of a small car park, with bricks the colour of watered down metal and long windows along one side. A hopscotch made from even slabs of stone crawls around the edge and to the double doors, painted emerald green and hanging on rusted hinges. It seems to breathe silence. There’s quite a number of people inside, though, which makes Dan feel better. If they were the only ones, he wouldn’t know what he’d do, but it turns out they’re not the only ones under thirty.

Gentle chatter slips over the polished wooden floor. The sunlight casts stripes of light over the tables. Each boasts a few sculpted books, with the artists behind them, patiently smiling. With the displays snaking all the way around the open room, chairs are dotted around in the gaps. The hall is surprisingly empty of Christmas decorations, disguising any hint that it’s late November in the rest of the country. The taste of coffee settles on his tongue and the dust motes on his eyelashes; his shoes barely find purchase on the flooring beneath him as they move away from the doorway.

“And they’ve even provided us with food,” Phil notes in approval, nodding over at the plates of biscuits perched on a larger table, only discernible from the others by the ceramic plates that litter its top.

“Are those Bourbons?” Dan cranes his neck. “Yes, they are; they have official biscuit refreshments.”

“We’re not here only for the food, are we?”

“No, not at all,” Dan agrees.

Phil gives an airy laugh, drops a few coins onto the donations bowl with a handful of clinks.

“Should we start here and work round?”

“That would be the logical option, yes.”

“Whatever, Dan.”

They cross the short distance to the first desk, Phil leading. They see the first, and it takes a few seconds of just looking to fully give everything the attention needed.

The book has been manipulated into a forest, words in Times New Roman scattered over close knit, spindly branches. A moon is hanging behind the group, a snug house cowering behind a few tree trunks. A solitary wolf has its open nuzzle inclined towards the moon. The whole thing is built outwards from the open book, the pale tone turning the thin slips of cut paper into something not unlike a silver birch. Dan’s gaze sweeps over it several times, mouth a little agape.

“Not what you were expecting?” Phil asks from beside him, still regarding the art. Dan’s eyes flicker to him and back to the table.

“Not exactly.”

“Not your average pop-up book, either.”

“Definitely not.”

“Really takes recycling to a whole other level. They can pretend to be trees again,” Phil remarks distantly.

Dan pulls a face at him. “I think you’ve hit a nerve there, Phil.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Phil waves it off. “Trees don’t have feelings.”

“Your mum doesn’t have feelings.”

Phil turns his head, gives it a miniscule shake as he grins, “Don’t.”

Dan bites back a laugh. They give the forest a final once-over before moving on. As they slide on past a few tables, several catch Dan’s eye: another tree, this time solitary and with paper twisted into branches with falling leaves; a forest with a small paper girl and a scaled down representation of a torch casting the warm glow of a fire onto the opposite trees; a train, complete with windows and tracks, colliding with a paper tunnel. They pause longer at one hefty book, most of the pages cut out to leave room for a retreating staircase, complete with words as tiles.

“Wow,” Dan says, after enough silence has been held to reveal their thoughts.

“Yeah,” Phil agrees with a nod and a raise of his eyebrows.

“They are incredible, aren’t they?” a woman to the left of them says. Dan regards her greying hair and jeans with fleeting interest as he smiles politely.

“Not something I’d want to happen to my books, but they are spectacular,” Phil responds. The remark makes her laugh.

“Well, that is one way of putting it. They must take so much work, I don’t know how they do it.” Her gaze lingers for a moment. “Well, have a good day.”

“And you,” Dan replies, and she smiles once more before moving the way they’ve just come.

“‘Not what I’d want to happen to my books,’” Dan scoffs. “Why do I know you?”

Phil shrugs. “She has a point; I wonder how they’re made.” He tilts his head.

“Wizard magic, obviously,” Dan answers over his shoulder as he ambles to the last piece on the table.

“I think someone’s been drinking too much coffee late at night. Who’s idea was that?”

“Yours, actually,” Dan retaliates, pulling a smug face of triumph before turning to the next table along.

“Does that explain a lot? I feel like that explains a lot.”

“Probably.”

-

“It’s like that John Green book,” Phil comments as they look at another, a small town emerging from the pages. “You know,” he continues when Dan shows a blank face, “Paper Towns.”

“No. I will eviscerate you.”

“That may not be a good idea,” Phil says, gesturing at all the books around them.

“I will destroy you. Anything else destroyed is a bonus,” Dan deadpans.

“Dramatic. You should write a book,” Phil says as seriously, and Dan breaks his act to groan, disgruntled.

“Please, stop,” he implores.

“I was considering turning over a new leaf, actually.”

Dan’s face scrunches as he playfully punches Phil in the arm.

“Okay, okay,” Phil says through laughs, “No puns, under risk of death. Got it.”

“How do you even come up with that many that quickly?” Dan asks in disbelief. “Don’t you dare,” he cuts Phil off as a grin plasters the other’s face. “You know what, don’t answer that. They’re all shit anyway.” Phil rolls his eyes, instead turning to the artist opposite the table to them.

“Hi, do you mind explaining how you make these? They’re amazing,” he asks, and the artist’s expression grows from a service smile to a genuine one. He’s a young man with handsome dark skin and his hands comfortably dug into his jean pockets, and his eyes crinkle slightly as he focuses on them.

“Sure!” he says brightly. Phil makes eye contact with Dan, checking he’s happy with this, before nodding at the artist to continue.

“So I tend to base my designs on the book, but obviously everyone’s different. I sketch it in pencil, then cut through with a scalpel. If you look,” he leans over, pointing at parts of the sculpture - a small beach with huts - “you can probably tell that there’s some sort of support. I tend to use wood; you know, sticks for trees, that sort of thing,” he explains, continuing to gesticulate with his hands. “We use glue, though I try to avoid coating my stuff with it. That’s basically it. Oh, and patience; you need a lot of patience,” he grins.

Dan’s kind of lost: he’s still not comprehending how a blade and pencil can create all this. But the impermanent fragility of the books makes him want to reach out and see if he can make fingerprints out of the ink.

“That’s amazing, isn’t it?” Phil asks Dan. Dan wonders if carbon stains on his fingers would leave his fingerprint behind if he brushed them over Phil’s cheeks. He remembers to nod. “Thank you,” Phil then says to the artist.

“No worries.” He nods before leaving, walking over to another end of the table. Dan tugs the ends of his sleeves over his hands, curling his fingers, and they take a few steps away.

“So no wizardry, then.” Phil clicks his tongue. “Shame.”

“You need to understand sarcasm,” Dan says, because they both know Phil’s taking the piss and Dan didn’t think being personally victimised could fail to annoy him, but it has.

“When you stop using it, I’ll stop using it against you.”

Dan frowns. “You wouldn’t have anything to use against me, in that case.”

Phil hesitates just slightly before grinning. “Exactly.”

“Right, okay.” Dan rolls his eyes and guides Phil forward, “Stop acting clever and move on.”

-

They get through all the art in around half an hour, Dan mentally changing his favourites every few minutes as they uncover more. Some make them laugh, with twisted figures in comic sketches; others make their foreheads furrow as they lean in for a closer look, marvelling at the vignettes and craftsmanship, and between them they conjure up stupid theories about how they’re made. Phil concocts random backstories for the scenes, sometimes, using bad ventriloquy which makes Dan laugh loudly. They talk, as well, in distracted sentences and bursts of discussion on whatever comes to mind.

(He wonders if this is what Phil would be like at two in the morning and drunk; careless and enthralling and soaking up potassium.)

The number of people fluctuates around them, and sometimes the coffee machine can be heard through the murmur. As time goes on, Dan grows more conscious of his aching feet and the smell of hot beverages.

“Are we done? Anything you want to see?” Phil asks when they’ve completed the circuit.

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Shall we go, then?”

Dan casts his gaze over the hall. As fixated as they had been with the biscuits at the beginning, they are not so enticing now. Or, more, the idea of eating them here isn’t enticing, because though the biscuits look just as good from this angle, and though the plates of crumbs are being topped up by the people making coffee when necessary, the small, rickety tables are crowded, and they probably make one hundred cups of coffee from one tin. His eyes are aching around the edges, now, too, and maybe it would be better if he got home.

“Yeah, okay,” he intones.

Side by side, they walk to the double doors, smiling amiably at anyone who looks their way. The floor is too squeaky.

“What’s the time?” Phil asks as the doors thud shut behind them. He flicks his wrist to reveal a slim watch, regarding the time before letting his sweater sleeve fall back over the glass. “We’ve been out just over half an hour. I feel bad dragging you out for such a small amount of time.”

“‘ _What’s the time_?’ he says as he looks at his watch,” Dan mocks. “And I don’t mind, honestly,” Dan assures him. The air is becoming humid, fusty, and heavy, as grumbling clouds continue to streak across the sky.

“Hmm,” Phil thinks for a second. “What time is your lecture?”

“Two,” Dan answers after a pause for thought.

“Well, do you want to come to mine for a bit? It’s the least I can do to return the favour. It’s about ten minutes from here.”

“I don’t want to be-”

“And I’ve got biscuits.”

Dan grins. “You’re in,” because Phil is insisting, after all.

“I knew it. This way, then,” Phil instructs, heading off in one direction.

-

_we are, you and i, autumn leaves falling from our tree. fluttering and twisting and spluttering in streaks of burnt gold, and we dance to forget that we will eventually be dust on the ground so let us make this last as long as possible_

-

The hall is on the outskirts of the city centre, and Phil guides him parallel to the beginning of the network of shops, talking to him about some news story he heard ages ago. His narrative is occasionally interrupted, either by a commentary of their position or a vague direction.

“This way. About half way, now,” he informs, the roads becoming quieter around them, lined with more houses.

It begins to rain. Perfunctory, at first, with tender hisses on their cheeks which they ignore - but it soon starts to billow outwards in spear-like torrents which strike their clothes and faces, clenched against their chattering teeth. A vexed grumble falls from Dan’s lips and splashes amongst the puddles as he tugs his jacket up around his neck. A darker tone is spreading across his jeans as they dampen, and he looks at Phil for a look of understanding, but the other just laughs.

“You’ve got raindrops on your eyelashes. And, your hair…”

Dan makes a noise of indignance, pushing the sopping strands from his forehead. That’s ten minutes spent on his hair wasted. “Has it gone curly?”

“I can confirm that, actually, you are the real life version of a hobbit.”

“Don’t get so excited,” Dan mutters.

“Sorry. I’ve just always wanted to meet Bilbo, he’s my hero,” Phil says with a derisive hand on his heart.

“Fuck off.” Dan pushes his hair back again.

“I’ll just give you a towel when we get there,” Phil ameliorates. “But let me enjoy this moment for now.” He grins through the rain, takes a few steps, fleeting footsteps left in the damp, then stops. “Oh, wait, it’s back that way,” he says in casual realisation. He laughs as he begins to backtrack, “Oops.”

“You did not just forget the way to your own house.”

“I was distracted,” Phil defends.

“This is just an elaborate scheme to let me freeze to death, isn’t it?”

“I will give you a towel when we’re there!”

“Yeah, _if_ we get there.”

In the end, they do make it to Phil’s house, much to Dan’s relief. It’s a small bungalow on a cul de sac, with two patches of grass bordering the path and an iron-wrought gate to the side leading to what must be the garden. Beginnings of flowers spill from a couple of woven baskets, and another climbs up a lattice and edges over the window to the right of the door. A string of fairylights is hooked to the roof.

“See, that didn’t take long, did it?” Phil searches for his keys. Dan scoffs. Phil unlocks the door and steps in, holding the door wide open for Dan. They emerge in a small hall, and Dan has a quick look around as they kick their shoes off. The walls are painted a cornflower blue, drenched in the endings of sunlight, and he proceeds to note the doors, four in number that he can see, which lead off from the space before the corridor takes a ninety degree turn.

“It’s a nice place,” Dan compliments.

“Thanks. My parents have been renting it for years, so I thought it was time I invaded.”

Phil’s messing with his drenched hair in the mirror that hangs in one corner. He catches Dan’s eye, distant and lopsided in the glass, and smiles before returning to the task.

“The fairylights are a good addition.”

“When I found I could reach the roof, I had to. No long ladders or super glue involved, so I’m fine.”

“I won’t ask.”

Phil rolls his eyes, a flick of blue from one side to the other, before he’s smiling. “Right, I’d better get that towel now.”

He disappears around the corner for a long moment before returning with a cream towel in hand.

Dan takes it from his outstretched hand with a grateful smile, “Thanks.”

“No worries. I’ll just be in the kitchen when you’re done. It’s through that door, but you’ll come across the dining room first.”

“Right. See you in a minute, then.”

Phil ducks through the door he has just pointed to - the further of the two on the right - and Dan turns to the mirror. He does look a mess, with conglomerations of water under his eyes and over his cheeks, his hair hanging in damp strings over his forehead. He begins to dry himself off with the towel, rubbing it through his hair until it’s passable as dry. When it comes to his clothes, he gives up. A few pats with the towel lead nowhere in terms of drying them, so he sheds his jacket, leaving it on the radiator beside him. After tidying his hair, he walks down to the dining room door.

The house is calm and cool with relaxed furnishing, and to Dan it feels open and comfortable. In addition to the mirror suspended in the first corner, there is a petite, white table, a plate for keys, a scented candle and a pile of old books balanced on top; next to it is a meagre pile of shoes. The artificial light yellows the walls, but he can imagine that, when dazzled by sunlight, the house would be clean pastels. There’s an underlying sweet aroma of berries, slightly like air freshener and slightly like the smoothies that would stain his white shirts, which Dan hopes he won’t become accustomed to too quickly. The door on the left is half open, and on the way past he can see through into the room. A desk is pushed to the blue wall under the window, and an all-encompassing shelf is opposite the door, filled with books and trinkets. Phil wasn’t joking when he said he had too many notebooks. All of this he takes in with a cursory glance, so the exact interior of the room goes unseen.

He walks on through the dining room, a space mainly filled by a wooden table with a polished sheen and a retinue of askew chairs, and into the kitchen. He ruffles his hair once more as he goes through the open door, setting the waterlogged towel on a chair. There’s a small table for two pushed to one side, the cupboards and surfaces encircling the other walls. Library receipts scatter about the surfaces, just like they do in every other room Dan has passed, as well as a pile of bookmarks. Dan has the feeling neither of these groups all belong to Phil. An empty raspberry and passion fruit Fanta bottle stands by the sink, dregs of gaudy pink in the bottom. Phil is stood at one of the work tops, lit by one of the two large windows and one of the lights above him, and he is pouring steaming into one of two mugs and humming coalesced tunes. He looks up with a welcoming smile upon Dan’s arrival, and, predictably, water starts streaming out onto the surface - he lets out a little curse and sets the kettle upright.

“Dry now?” he asks, taking a tea cloth and wiping away the spillage, working around the kitchen naturally as if nothing has happened.

“We all saw that,” Dan says, but Phil ignores him, so he continues, “As dry as possible when you use a towel. Turns out they don’t really work on clothes, who’d’ve thought?”

Phil hums in thought. “Do you want a jacket, or something? Oh, and what do you want in your tea?”

“Just milk’s fine. I don’t care, I just need caffeine. And, no thanks, it’s warm enough in here.”

With the glass cupboards and rich, sepia wood, the kitchen has the atmosphere of an untarnished coffee shop.

“Cool. Take a seat, by the way,” Phil says, pausing from his drink making endeavors to nod at the chairs. Dan takes the offer, propping his head on his palm once he’s seated.

“How are you so damn dry anyway?”

“I had a hood. And I stood in front of the radiator while the kettle boiled.”

Dan casts him a disdainful look.

“What? It works.”

“Yeah, clearly.” Dan nods as he speaks through the crinkled edges of his smile. Phil rolls his eyes as he sets the two cups down in front of them, taking the other seat.

“Do you want some biscuits?”

“You say you know me, and here you are, asking if I would like a biscuit?”

“I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Yes, I would like some biscuits.”

Phil gives an exaggerated groan as he goes to get them. He bangs his way through his cupboards in his search, leaving the doors open as he goes. He eventually finds them, opening the packet with an awry tear and leaving them in the centre of the table.

“Have you ever thought about shutting your cupboard doors?” Dan questions.

“It’s much easier to leave them open.”

Phil finds his seat again, takes a sip, pulls a face, and switches the mugs. Dan has left his own drink abandoned for the moment, so takes the new mug with little more than a small shake of his head.

“I suppose not categorising said cupboards is easier as well?”

“When I’m baking I have no time for such time-wasters.”

“You bake?”

“People have to look after themselves, you know. Don’t you cook for yourself?”

“My diet is ninety percent fast food and ready meals. But I meant, do you _bake_ bake?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a pro. It’s mainly just impulse when I want something sweet. I’ve got some cook books over there.” He nods to a shelf trailing under one line of cupboards, on which Dan spies a stack of books, some pots of coffee and tea, and a pack of post-it notes.

“I haven’t baked in a long time,” Dan remarks, making out the names of the books as he takes another sip of his coffee.

“You should come round some time and bake with me. There are still some recipes I want to do,” Phil offers. Dan resists the urge to spit out his drink in a haste to reply.

“Really?”

“Yeah! No going all Gordon Ramsay on me, though.”

“I would never,” Dan says with a wry smile.

“That’s the problem.”

“What are you going to do about it, then?”

“I guess I could fatten you up. Fill you with sugary treats, then cook you in my oven.” He scrunches his face as he regards the cooker. “I think you’d fit.”

Dan shakes his head, but he’s laughing, the sound loose between his grinning lips. He stops when he sees Phil watching him, jaw set and nails clicking against the ceramic, once, twice.

“What?”

“I was just thinking - never mind, it’s not important.”

Dan wants to ask again, wants to ask why it matters that it’s not important and why anything is important at all and why, after all this time, he still acts like this. He doesn’t ask this - _of course_ he doesn’t - and at that moment, there’s the slam of a door and thud of footsteps, alongside the call of a voice.

“Phil?”

Laura’s shoes click on the kitchen floor. She looks more soft in person, similar to watercolor, in fact, with her mousey waves pinned back on one side, freckles showered on her cheeks, and her curves filling her jeans and cream sweater. Her face flashes with surprise at the sight of Dan, but she then smiles brightly.

“Hi,” Phil greets, standing and pressing a kiss to her cheek. Dan feels the twinge in his stomach as Phil stands beside her, his arm draped happily around her waist. He regrets that it has to be like this. It had all been fine when they first met, there was no attraction at all, but once they grew closer and became friends, apparently Dan’s emotions can’t get enough of him. Laura faces Dan with a grin and flushed cheeks.

“Hiya, I’m Laura. It’s great to meet you.”

“Dan,” he returns, leaning forward to shake her hand. “I can leave, if, er -”

“Oh, no, you’re fine. I’m just dropping by before I go to work,” she assures him. (Dan’s still not entirely sure if he wants to be here, but -.)

“That’s some work, if they allow you to sleep in this late.”

“Yeah, it’s great. Though, that spare time is committed to absolute asocial time wasting, so I’ll leave it to you to decide if that’s a good thing.”

Dan grins genuinely.

“Oh, Dan, I realised you already knew I baked. That cheesecake, remember?” Phil speaks up.

“Oh, yeah.” Dan laughs awkwardly. Laura looks between the two of them, and as silence falls she pulls herself out of Phil’s grip.

“Right, well, I’d better be going.”

“Already?”

“Yes, I have work, you twat,” she rolls her eyes. “And the weather’s awful at the moment, so I’d better take my chance. Have an awesome day.” She kisses Phil swiftly before leaving. They remain quiet until the door shuts, Phil sitting again.

“She’s an interesting character,” Dan comments. Phil shrugs.

“She’s Laura.”

“You’re gonna need a better adjective than that, Phil,” Dan says.

“Shut up,” Phil laughs, kicking Dan under the table. Dan lets out a hearty laugh himself, feeling something relax in his chest. He wants to ask more about the two of them now he has an excuse to, wants to keep prodding until the topic is raw, but he shoves all temptation to one side.

“What about you? Anyone in your lectures, or…” Phil asks casually, too casually, taking a gulp of his drink.

“What would you say if I said that right now, love is a hinderance and a chore, and I think it’s an excuse for people to get what they want?”

Phil answers quickly, “I’d say you’re a pretentious prick.”

“Well, then I’ll say what do you think Chris and Peej are to me?

Phil laughs shortly. “I’m not surprised. Do either of them take science?”

“No, why?”

Phil hums. “I thought I could sense chemistry.”

“Yeah, no,” Dan chides, and shoots him a glare which makes him laugh harder.

“My mum always used to say that you need to get as many friends as you can: one for each problem you have.”

“Your mother is a wise woman.”

Phil’s eyes crinkle when he laughs and his hand flies up to hide a large smile.

“What other nuggets of wisdom do you hold?”

Phil opens his mouth, then closes it again. “You know, now you’ve asked, I’ve forgotten everything.”

“You’re useless.”

“Wait! Oh, actually. Um. It’s something about ‘You are the Big Bang’.”

“That was very inspiring, Phil, thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, drink, your coffee’s getting cold.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I really hope that’s not the case.”

“So do I, but you need to stop.”

“Are you done?”

“For now, yes.”

“Then drink.”

They talk a while longer, questions that could stem from _get to know me_ quizzes and random tangents that will mean nothing in an hour, nor will they be remembered.

“What’s the time?” Dan asks eventually.

They’ve worked their way through half the packet of biscuits. Phil points him towards a minimalist-style clock behind him, his mouth full of biscuit. The hands read just gone twelve.

“I’d better get going,” Dan says, standing. “You know, shit to do.”

“I’ve just realised you have no way of getting home, I’m sorry. I would offer to give you a lift, but I don’t have a car.”

“It’s fine, it’s not much of a walk from here. I just have to circumnavigate these streets.”

“I could walk with you to the library, at least.” Phil stands also.

“Well, if you insist….” Dan grins. “That would be great, thanks.”

“You’d better go while it’s dry.” Phil peers out the window. “I’ll go grab an umbrella.”

“But that means I’ll have to see you again to return it,” Dan grumbles, making his way to the hall as Phil scurries off to another part of the bungalow. He awaits Phil’s return, putting his jacket - now thankfully dry - back on.

“Shut up,” Phil scolds, poking him with the umbrella. “Do you want a coat or anything?”

“Nah, I’ll brave it. And I’m trying to reduce the number of links I have to you.”

“So rude.” Phil shakes his head in disbelief. Grabbing his keys, he herds Dan out the door. “Come on, get out me house.”

“Now who’s being rude?”

“A man must defend himself, Dan. As must everyone, actually.”

“Anything else?”

“Hmm, no, I think that’s all my knowledge for today.”

“Shame.”

The rain has more paused than cleared, the sky dense with cloud, the air wet and weighted. Phil leads Dan down the labyrinthine streets of his neighbourhood to town, continuing on until they reach the library. The conversation is maintained around easy silences, and Dan has to take a moment when he realises that, when Phil asks him something about the toiletry habits of flamingoes, he barely thinks anything of it. It leads into what could be viewed as an intellectual exchange, anyway, so he lets himself get away with it. (He knows he’s in too deep, but nothing’s new there.)

Phil hands the umbrella to Dan as they halt outside the library. Dan takes it, carefully positioning his fingers and feeling disgustingly sorry for himself that he didn’t get the excuse to huddle shoulder to shoulder with Phil in the rain.

“So we need to sort out that baking day at some point,” Phil says as they hover.

“That was serious?” Dan asks. Phil gives him a look which says he should know better. “Right, yes. I’ll message you at some point.”

“You don’t have to just message me about social gatherings, Dan,” Phil says, “Message me about anything. Please. I get bored easily.”

“Of course you do,” Dan says aside, then, “Sure.”

“I’ll see you soon, then. You’d better go before it rains again.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you whenever I do. I’ve got some tests which have crept on me, so,” Dan gestures randomly in place of the ending of his sentence.

“Great.”

Phil hugs him goodbye - Dan might never get over that - before lightly pushing him in the direction of his house. “Fly.”

Dan, following these obscure instructions, traipses home with the fear of more rain quickening his pace. He runs his finger over the bottom of the umbrella as he goes, digging his nail into the small ridge. His jacket still carries the scent of Phil’s home, and Dan resists the urge to press his face into the collar, while the recent memory of Laura turns the aroma sour. It’s not that he hates her, and it’s not that he thinks he has any say over what Phil does. If anything, she’s good for him, and Dan should be grateful that Phil is happy with someone who loves him. If Chris were here, God, if he were here he might be saying something like _hey, maybe they’ll end horribly._ But that’s not right, that’s just evil-tainted hope, and he knows it. And, anyway, what was the saying? _Starts with a breakup, ends with a break up._

Dan figures he should stop dampening his spirits any further, pushes the thoughts from his mind before they start to make any less sense, and instead watches each step he makes to avoid cracks in the pavement.

On his way up the stairs to his room, he runs into another of his house mates. Jack’s tugging on a denim jacket on the way to the kitchen as the door clicks behind Dan, and he turns at the sound to give a nod of recognition before disappearing through the door. Dan doesn’t have time to return it. He heads up to his room, stares blankly out the window for a few minutes.

There’s another house across the street, one that, no matter how many times it has caught his eye, has never displayed anyone living inside. The only sign of life he’s seen is the glow of a light through the curtains at night. He doesn’t know who lives there, not that he ever will: the house is just one more uniform building on the street, with the same path and white door as the rest. A fair number of people pass the street every day, and Dan is barely there to see them.

Sloping away from his bed, Dan slumps at his desk and fiddles with papers and words for a while, his laptop teetering on the edge of his vision. The house stays silent, unmoved and undisturbed.

It’s raining again when he leaves for the university. Feeble and wet. He remembers the umbrella, letting it spread like wings just before stepping out. Something flutters to the ground - a sweet wrapper, a Milky Way - and it must have slipped between the folds at some point. Dan grins to himself as he slips it into his pocket, walking out. He might quiz Phil about it later.

During his lecture, he finds himself fiddling with it, his fingers tearing the foil into tiny tassels at each end. The umbrella, Dan has discovered, is one of those which changes colour in the water, and the rainbow is fading when he swings it back up to shield his head upon leaving.


	6. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> late night texting + christmas. need i say more

Dan stretches his legs out again. He turns over in his unrest, the mattress and duvet rustling as a result. The words, though interesting, skuttle on the page. He keeps squinting one eye, leaving it closed for too long and having to deal with the fuzzy shapes imprinted on his vision because of it. Eventually, he gives in, lays the book down on the ground, switches his lamp off and reaches for his iPod touch.

It was given to him the Easter before he left for university, and he’s kept the case his mother had put on it at the time. The screen protector bubbles, and the case is ragged at the edges, but it’s the closest thing he has to a decent phone, and he refers to it as such. He has free messages, if he ever actually has someone to message, and many apps that he barely uses. There’s a Nokia hidden in his bag pockets, if he needs to call anyone and there’s the credit to do so. He settles for it, he settles for it just fine.

Bending his elbows and wrapping both hands around it, Dan pulls the device closer. He sets some music playing softly, to fill the silence, next opening the Facebook messenger. There is the possibility that he will regret this later, when disquiet will undoubtedly gnaw at his cortex and sing and sing and sing; right now, though, he can’t find a part of him to care. He feels disarrayed, convoluted patchworks and broken clocks, as his breath tears through his teeth and he tries to ignore the macabre taste at the back of his throat. He enters Phil’s name and the conversation tab opens, and he bites his lip, contemplating. The back of his eyes still ache mildly, and the garish clock at the top of the screen sketches ‘00:46’ in biting neon onto the night air. It’s not _too_ late, but there’s the whole question of ‘ _how late is too late to text someone?_ ’, and Phil may never see it, anyway. But he’s got a nagging case of l’esprit de l’escalier, in a way, with unspoken thoughts and prospects swimming in between, so he starts to type.

_dan: i never said thank you for having me, so, thank you_

Dan leaves the messenger as soon as it’s sent, flicking between apps and web-pages as he waits. The reply flashes at the top of the screen a minute or so later, and Dan taps it immediately.

_phil: it was nothing. feel free to steal my biscuits any time ^-^_

_dan: thanks. same here. there’s always more milk_

_phil: haha_

They continue to chat, the heaviness of Dan’s eyelids forgotten; he grins as the lamplight makes him blink hard, while the window he’s left open sends slivers of sound and and gusts of wind over to him. Conversation turns from how their days went to Phil recounting a tale of some odd person he met on the bus, and finally, somehow, rests on innuendoes in Shakespeare. It makes Dan laugh, crooked when slashed across the silken silence, and Phil likely is too, proud of his lame jokes, and Dan’s chest is swelling. Maybe.

Googling another to ensure it is correct, he sends it and hopes it will get the reaction he predicts.

_dan: ‘o kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!’_

_dan: ‘i kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all’_

_phil: omg_

_phil: i’d forgotten about that one_

_phil: oh goD_

Dan predicts about right.

_dan: what, can’t get a taste of ur own medicine?_

_phil: well, someone’s getting a taste of something, and it’s not medicine_

Dan’s laughter balloons outwards loudly into his room, empty of anyone save himself. His soft music is the only sound, and one he had momentarily forgotten; he is laughing alone, and it is making him become very conscious of how much he would like company, would like to hear another voice. But that’s impossible, for his phone is near creditless, Facebook offers nothing similar, and Dan hasn’t got Phil’s iMessage, nor the guts to ask for it. Even if he did, the questionable light source he has and the depths of the night they’ve found themselves in are not auspicious for a video call. He’ll have to make do.

_dan: it could be u_

_phil: it couldn’t be you_

_dan: thanks, phil, i had managed to repress my crippling loneliness for so long. there is no hope now._

They talk for a while longer, until Dan is struggling to type and his head lies heavy on his pillow, the texts he sends riddled with typos due to lethargy. They have barely said goodnight when Dan gives in to his fatigue.

-

“So?” Dan prompts once Chris has selected and bought their cakes.

They had originally come into town to buy superglue and duct tape for the disaster which is Chris’ house, but the Christmas spirit and labyrinthine aromas have enticed them. The only excuse Dan can give is that they have bought the items they came for, at least. That’s justification enough.

The store is empty apart from them and the cashier, the shelves and counter nearly rid of their goods - most of the stock is sold during the day, Dan knows, and it goes quickly - and Dan is trying to find something to do with himself, something which doesn’t include hanging around uselessly by a display case. Talk has - perhaps predictably - turned to Phil. Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit which has prevented Dan from switching away again.

“So…” Chris repeats, taking the bag offered to him and thanking the worker. They exit the store, Chris noseying in the bag as he continues, “You have several options.”

“Right.”

“One -” Chris’ voice is muffled, and he swallows his mouthful before continuing “-you make a move. You know, bold, direct.” He gesticulates as he talks.

“So you’re proposing I forget all morals and dignity I have, risk ruining our friendship, and hope Phil will forget about standards and his very stable, long term relationship,” Dan says conversationally, looking at Chris when he finishes.

“Yes.”

“And you think that’ll work?”

“No. Even if you do hook up, Phil will break up with Laura because he feels guilty, but he won’t go out with you because you’re, you know, sleazy.”

“Right.”

“Which is why we have option two.”

Dan swallows a sigh. “And what’s option two?”

“You become the person Phil goes to for advice. He does it for you, so it would be returning a favour. Of course, you’ll have to hear everything he says about Laura, but you can slander the advice and turn him against her.”

“So be conniving?”

“Yeah.”

“That sounds like a great option.”

Though the shop is barren, it is in no way an accurate portrayal of the streets outside: they are crowded, and navigation is becoming harder by the minute. They’re dodging hemic holograms with complicated pulses as well as the wind that barrells their lungs, licking sugar off their fingers, and Dan’s head is starting to be compressed on every side by the bitter weather, inclement metal plates slithering and squeezing over his jaw.

“Are you making this up as you go along?” Dan has to ask, but Chris presents him with a face that says _seriously?_ in such an unimpressed fashion that Dan says, “Forget I asked.”

“So, option three: you patiently wait it out. They might break up, and you can jump in and snag your man.”

“Never say that again.”

“Or, they get married, live a happy life, and you’re always on the edge, secretly pining.”

“So...be pathetic.”

“Yeah. It is the most ethical approach, but has the downside of…”

“Being pathetic,” Dan finishes. “And is the least likely to get anywhere, if I’m honest.”

“Ah, but ethics, Daniel.”

“You got anymore?” Dan presses on, reigning his tone down to nonchalance. He doesn’t intend to reveal that Chris’ so called _advice_ is entertaining.

“Option four. You be honest.” Chris suddenly goes closer to sincere than previously, eyes travelling to make loose eye contact. “Tell him how you feel.”

“So: level up and embrace the chance he could like me even though he’s in a relationship.”

“Dan, he sent homoerotic Shakespeare to you, technically. In context. Amongst the dozens of gross things which have happened. It could happen.”

“Your dramatic love scene will never happen,” Dan corrects.

Chris glares at him. “Honesty is the foundation of any good friendship, or relationship. Try it.” Chris scrunches up the paper bag and throws it in the nearest bin with added vehemence.

“ _That_ was meant to be dramatic,” Dan says. “Seriously?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m allowed this.”

“Yeah?”

“The advice you’ve given me is be sleazy, be conniving, be pathetic, or be impossibly honest.”

Chris tilts his head in thought. “Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound like very good advice.”

“Just to reiterate, none of those are going to happen.”

“Well then it’s option five,” Chris concludes.

Dan blinks. Having stopped at the edge of the pavement, Chris looks directly at him, and Dan can feel the unsettled air move past them as everyone continues to walk past.

“What’s option five?”

“You move on.”

-

Dan fiddles with the edge of his sleeves all the way home, wet flares covering his view of the pavement. Chris rattles on about his classes and a place he saw on TV where scientists make actual stars, casting Dan apologetic glances and encouraging smiles. The blunt truth scurries in his head in corrosive streaks, each sentence Chris says reminding him, and he wishes he had internet so he could message Phil like nothing ever happened, but he can’t - so he bites his cheek and tries to claw the sugar granules from between his teeth.

The air grows increasingly bitter, and it smells of glacial smoke and mist and chestnuts. Coruscating colours roam the sides of the street in the form of tinsel and adverts, blatant against the tired sky. Dan finds it too easy to get sick of the scent of cinnamon.

They pass the library, and as they approach, Chris’ eyes flick between the building and Dan uncertainly, weighing up options.

“Do you need anything?” Chris asks in passing.

Dan replies, “I have a pile of books to get through,” and Chris catches the edge of Dan’s sleeve, pulling him to a stop.

“I wasn’t just talking about books.”

“I know.” Dan stares at Chris’ shoulder.

“So, what, you’re gonna avoid him until you’ve decided?”

Dan shrugs helplessly. His eyes have traced over the stitching in Chris’ jacket several times over. Chris sighs, and there’s the thud of his shoes on concrete as they move on again.

Dan may not answer, but he does think. He lets his mind totter and trip over words and possibilities, each bringing a new level of nausea and confusion.

They say goodbye at the junction where the roads to their houses meet.

“Until I’ve accepted the options,” Dan announces suddenly. “I’ll avoid him until I’ve accepted the options.”

Chris frowns. “That could take a long time, mate.”

“Probably,” Dan concedes, gives a wry smile. “But I can pretend, can’t I?”

-

_new message_

_to: phil_

_did you know your eyes are th_

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_to: phil_

_i think i_

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-

It’s only a matter of time before he starts going back.

He was never going to avoid Phil.

-

“So, like,” Phil begins as he flicks a shred of tinsel off the table, “us staff get a bit carried away with the whole Christmas thing.”

Dan raises his eyebrows, looking up from his book. “You’re responsible for this?” He’s been absent from the library for just over a week - down to work and fatigue on his part - and in that time, the building has undergone a makeover which transcends the lame commercial Christmas. Every other shelf is either strangled by snakes of tinsel or decked with an ornament, and some poor soul has had to climb a ladder to hook some foam snowflakes to high ledges and the low-lying ceilings. Dan’s nearly hit himself in the eye twice with a bauble, but he’s only partly thankful that libraries can’t play music. The lack of Christmas songs is good, but unnerving considering the decoration of the library: there is a fatal hole in the Christmas spirit.

“No. I mean, yes, but only a little bit. A tiny little bit.” Phil draws a space between his thumb and forefinger. By doing so, he catches sight of another spike of tinsel caught on his sleeve, and continues to pick it off.

Dan pulls a face, “What is wrong with you?”

“We’re only allowed to have the decorations out for a little while every year, we may as well make the most of them. And when we get the boxes out of the store room, we get a little excited and it’s a bit like a school reunion.”

“When it comes to Christmas you have no self control.”

“I do,” Phil objects, “until December. Then I am a force to be reckoned with.”

“What, do you attack people with tinsel, or something?” Dan asks. He flicks to the next page indifferently, eyes flitting up for a second. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“Dan,” Phil says shortly in disappointment. “Let’s just say I know how to decorate the perfect Christmas tree.”

“Whatever you say,” Dan exhales, continuing to read. Phil huffs at him, eliciting a smug smile from Dan, and he stands. He circles the alcove, rearranging and ordering the books deftly. They’re silent for a few minutes, and Dan hears snippets of hummed song crooning over the flicks of his book pages. The library as a whole is reasonably quiet and Dan fancies he can hear the clicks of a keyboard from one of the public computers. Through a moment empty of sound comes the buzz of Dan’s phone, and he sighs as he extracts it from his back pocket.

“Someone’s popular,” Phil remarks, Dan raising his eyebrows as he reads the text from Chris. The message poses as the reminder Chris promised to send him, though Dan had little say in the matter, and Dan clicks his tongue as he mulls over it.

“My friends are forcing me to come to this Christmas party, and I’m ‘allowed to bring a friend’ -” he illustrates with his hands - “so do you want to waste an evening at a stranger’s house?”

Phil sets the book he’s holding into its place, and turns to face Dan.

“Which friends?”

“How many friends do you think I have, Phil?”

Phil shrugs. “You could be hiding any number of friends.”

“It’s Chris and Peej.”

“Ah, okay. So when you asked how many friends I think you have, you really meant-”

“I really meant I have none, yes.”

Phil grins. “Well that’s unfortunate.”

“Fuck off. So do you have an evening to waste?”

“I have several, I’m sure I’ll be able to come.”

Dan conceals a sigh of relief. “Great. I’ll-”

“You’ll text me the details, I know,” Phil finishes, waving it away. “Now come and grab something to eat with me, would you?”

Dan stands and pushes his chair back, saying “Is it your break?”

“It is now.”

“Such a rebel,” Dan teases.

“I know, I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

“As you said.”

“As I said,” Phil agrees. “What do you want?”

“I feel like we should exploit the Christmas spirit while it lasts - but Starbucks is overrated.”

“We’ve had so many Starbucks, my blood is probably ninety nine percent coffee,” Phil concurs.

“I really fancy a croissant,” Dan says absently.

“Can you even get those? I don’t know where anything is in this damn city.”

“Let’s just wander about until we find something, c’mon,” Dan suggests, a smile breaking out for Phil’s efforts.

Dan lightly pushes Phil out onto the street, where ice dissolves into the air like sugar and Dan has to clench his fingers together to keep them warm. Soon enough, they stumble upon a place: a snug café with gentle, yellow lights and dark corners. Its Christmas decoration problem is much more under control than Phil’s, with holly leaves drawn on the chalkboards and the magniloquent scent of peppermint. They both order warm chocolate muffins, and take a table deep in the corner - alas, they don’t sell any pastries, but Dan wasn’t desperate, anyway. They chat absently as they eat. Phil manages to get melted chocolate above his lip, and Dan laughs for a solid thirty seconds before telling a puzzled Phil what the matter is. He takes a napkin from the table, and nearly lifts it to the mark himself before handing it to Phil. When Phil argues that it’s a fashion statement, Dan throws his own crumpled up napkin at him and declares that it’s time to leave.

-

Neither of them has any idea where the party is.

Phil meets Dan at Dan’s house, the pair of them agreeing that they may as well get lost together. Chris and PJ will meet them there, and the decision is foolish as they are the only ones in the group who know the way to the party in the first place, but it’s too late now. Dan steps out to join Phil on the path when he opens the door, hooking his arms through his jacket. Phil’s wearing a long coat which slips over his shoulders and down his waist, the hood fluffed out with faux fur; he’s wearing glasses with a wide, chunky frame, over which his hair falls.

“So you’re a blind mole as well?” Dan notes as they set off down the road in what he hopes is the right direction, tendrils of steam shaping his words.

“That’s right, I am a member of the visually-impaired group, we meet every Wednesday.”

“That’s a bit stupid, isn’t it? Wearing them to a party?”

“You’re wrong, actually. I wore them so no one will want to punch me. They look expensive.” Phil deadpans. Dan shoves him lightly, lopsided with his stride. The material of Phil’s coat collapses at his touch. “No, I wore them because contacts can really hurt after a while.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Dan exhales, casting his gaze upwards. His search is hindered by the concrete clouds - he didn’t expect much, though - and he looks back to see Phil grinning knowingly.

“What? What is it?” he asks. He runs over his words again - _I’ll take, eye’ll take, Jesus Christ Phil_ \- and: “Oh my God, shut up!” He shoves him again, and Phil’s front gives way to laughter. “That pun wasn’t even intended, fuck you.”

“You didn’t even realise,” Phil points out, raising his hands to his mouth.

“I really hate you,” Dan mutters. Phil just laughs again.

Their attention is occupied by which way they need to go, and the fact that Phil is apparently unable to use Google Maps efficiently just prolongs the task. After a few wrong turns and pauses, they enter the suburban areas of the city, and Dan’s glad he allowed half an hour in which to get there. They fade back into silence, until Phil rubs his hands together and inhales through gritted teeth.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” As he breathes out, more wisps of steam curl upwards and they both watch it evanesce. On a sudden moment of inspiration, Dan nudges Phil with his elbow to get his attention.

“I’m a fucking dragon,” he announces, breathing out harshly so a cloud seeps into Phil’s face.

The other scrunches his face up. “Ew,” he says, and then decides to continue, “When I was little, Mum and me would call that moon silk.”

“That’s cute.”

“And it’s really lame, I know.”

Lame isn’t how Dan would explain it exclusively, and he opens his mouth to respond, object, anything, but Phil is already digging his phone out of his pocket and tilting the spectral light above his head, the back of the phone tipped towards the sky. Phil squints against the glare, and as Dan, too, tries to focus on the maps over Phil’s shoulder, his gaze moves past the phone and onto the sky. Amongst the smog and cloud, the sky is studded with stars, like light leaks. They resemble a child’s dot to dot, Dan thinks. And then he wonders why they have to resemble anything at all.

“We’re nearly there,” Phil declares, returning the phone to his pocket. “We need to go…” He spins on his heel in a 360 degree turn, pointing at one of the roads leading off the street, “that way.”

“Are you sure, Phil?” Dan asks, “Are you _sure_ this time?”

“Yes, I am,” Phil grumbles, “Now hurry up, or we’ll be late.”

“I’m moving, I’m moving,” Dan surrenders. They take the turning Phil has - fingers crossed - identified correctly, and the street is encrusted with glowing windows, stones of phosphorescence that make their meandering way onto both of their skin. The thud of their footsteps is hollow in the quiet - not dissimilar to the bleak drum of a heart - and Dan chews his lip as they walk along, his eyes travelling to Phil and back to the ground at least twice before he speaks.

“You know, I’m not keen to go to this thing,” Dan discloses, biting back the rest of an explanation.

“If you want to leave early, I’ll be happy to go with you,” Phil says, saving Dan from constructing an explanation which would ultimately decline into a ramble. His head snaps back up and sidewards, a stone skittering across the pavement.

“You will?” Dan asks.

“Yes,” Phil confirms, “I’m about as happy to go to this thing as you are.”

“But you have the Phil Lester charm.”

Phil lets out a short laugh, says, “Perhaps, but I don’t want to get anywhere near any mistletoe ever again,” and digs his white knuckles into the folds of his pockets.

“No one does.”

“That’s not true, for starters. And second, last time I was stuck under mistletoe, I managed to spill drink over them.”

“Wow,” Dan says slowly, widening his eyes.

“I then managed to insinuate that I wanted them to take their clothes off - this was before we’d got anywhere near kissing, by the way -” he’s spluttering out a laugh as his hands fly about, “- and as I made my cunning escape, I knocked into someone who spilt their drink over _me_. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone was drenched in the end, to be honest.”

Dan falls into peals of grandiloquent laughter. “Did you really?” he stutters out, “Oh my God.”

Phil nods ruefully. “I learnt that alcohol doesn’t really come out of clothes.” He makes direct eye contact with Dan for a moment before he joins him in his laughter, clutching at his chest and squinting his eyes.

“So you don’t want to come, you don’t _have_ to - and yet, here you are,” Dan says, tone too akin to tentative and retracting hands for him to be comfortable as he awaits an answer.

“Of course I am. I have to be there to weep over your body if anything happens.”

“That’s really reassuring, Phil, thanks,” Dan says. Their feet are dancing around the skipping ropes of crepuscular light, shed and scattered by homes and streetlights, that litters the concrete.

They take a few more steps before Phil stops, Dan nearly slamming into him. The house they’ve stopped at has a neat garden and gate identical to all the houses along the street, except its student-ownership renders the garden barren of anything ornate. Music dissipates through the brick, and Dan can start to hear more of it the longer he stands. The song switches from a modern dance hit to an old Christmas pop song. The curtains are drawn and there’s no wreath on the door, so there’s nothing to mark it separate from the rest; it doesn’t seem exactly _too_ rowdy, or anything.

“Is this it?” Phil asks.

“No, I hear music coming from the room but I really doubt it’s this one.”

Nerves and leftover bashfulness dissolve out of his skin.

“You never know, old Mrs Smith might be having a midnight bash. Check, please.” His tone is innocuous and what Dan’s sarcasm deserves.

Phil narrows his eyes as he attempts to focus on the house number, the digits having failed to be lit by the streetlights, nor the moonlight that leaves cautious pools of steel resting in the white paint of the doorframe. “It’s number 195.”

Dan tugs his sleeve up his arm and swallows harshly, blinking focus back between his lashes as he wills himself to snap out of it - whatever _it_ is. The inked tapestry has faded on his skin, but he can make it coherent once Phil shines the light of his phone over it.

“Yeah, it’s the right house. Is it the right street?”

“Now who’s the one checking too much?” Phil raises his eyebrows. “But it is; I saw on the way up.” Dan follows Phil’s gaze down the street to the sign just rising from the concrete at the contour of his vision.

“Shall we go in, then?” Phil prompts.

“Oh - yeah.”

“Weren’t Chris and PJ meant to meet us before we go in?”

Dan shakes his head, “They’re never able to wait once they’re outside. Plus, we’re late, but whose fault is that?” Dan is throwing his voice behind by the end of his sentence. Walking down the path, he can feel Phil’s gaze between his shoulder blades.

“It’s not my fault, if that was what you’re trying to suggest,” Phil defends, and Dan looks back over his shoulder with a derisive look; his eyes then come to rest on the door. Phil walks up next to him, and if Dan keeps his eyes on the brass knocker, it feels like there’s a ghost beside him. A soft, unfathomable ghost.

“So I guess we just...push it open and see?” Dan offers. He casts his gaze to the side, and Phil nods. Dan suppresses an inhale, rests his palms on the timber, and gives the door a shove. It swings open, and Dan steps through into the corridor with a feigned confidence and an alveolate chest.

Inside, the floor is deranged with shoes and coats, a maze with covalent bonds of colour, and Dan can’t take his eyes away from the tangle as Phil steps over it, shrugging off his coat. It falls to the ground in a slump, and another piece is fitted. Dan has no extra layer to lose, and his skin is slowly succumbing to the warmth. He toes off his shoes for good measure.

Phil’s wearing a t-shirt with pastel blue stripes that ripples and falls, the neckline coming together under his collarbone; it’s worn under a black jacket and over black jeans. Everything cascades over everything else, from his hair to his clothes. Dan hasn’t appreciated pastels much until now, and he looks away before the room starts to flounder.

“I had the impression you would wear some stupid Christmas jumper,” Dan says suddenly, and it might be because Phil was giving him an odd look - but he honestly cannot remember.

Phil rolls his eyes over his lazy smile. “I do have some sort of fashion sense.”

“Clearly, but I didn’t know if you’d use it or not,” Dan quips, shifting in the clothes he threw on early this afternoon.

The noise has, predictably, grown louder, and through several doors he can hear bombastic pounding and the yelling of stories which won’t matter in a month, and scratching major chords fill his head. The sound, and what it entails, nests between the pair of them.

“How many people did they say would be here?” Phil enquires. Dan shrugs.

“Who knows? Not that many, I think, but I’m really not sure.”

“Let’s just go for it, then.” Phil breathes out, smiles, and turns to nudge the nearest door open.

The elixir of different lights breaks through the gap, leaking chroma and shadow like a percolating wound. The acrid smell finally reaches Dan’s thoughts, a pungent scent of alcohol and sweat folding over him. He tries not to breathe through his nose, sucking in anemic breaths to dampen whatever is baring teeth between his ribs.

“Wait.”

Phil’s hand retracts from the handle.

“This is a uni party, right? So, like, alcohol and sex and drugs…” he trails off, eyes wide.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. They’re not all like that, I promise - and you’ll have me.” Dan must look unconvinced, because Phil perseveres, “And I don’t think there are that many people, listen.”

Dan tunes in to the erratic frequency of clattering teeth and bass lines and tries to picture how many people are needed to make that amount of discord.

“I don’t know…”

“We’ve come all this way, Dan. I don’t want to do this, either, remember? But we should. And, well, it’s Christmas,” he persuades with an excited glint in his eye.

“And that makes it okay?”

“ _You’ll_ be okay.”

“Fine,” Dan concedes.

“C’mon,” Phil beckons with a wave of his hand.

The room is loud, tumultuous and dishevelled, but the air’s clear enough, the stench compelling but with an underlying pool of something Dan can’t quite identify. There are a fair amount of people spread throughout, but there’s room to move in between, and he can see the other end of the room, so maybe Phil was right about it not being too bad. Dan takes a few breaths to get used to the smell.

Someone approaches them straight away, holding two paper cups in her soporific hands. She welcomes them with a sloppy smile, pressing the cups into the space between their palms. The alcohol prises Dan’s fingers apart.

Her hair is pulled up in a loose bun, asunder stripes of dark brown falling from it; and the relaxed hair lies to one side, the crown of her head shaped with the kink of hair. Her lips are a bitten red, and as Phil starts a conversation with her, Dan can see the pale interior of her mouth in comparison. Standing beside Phil, he casts his eyes around the room in an effort to locate Chris and PJ, bringing the rim of his cup to his lips. The small sips mean the bitterness only amounts to tiny stings. Dan has nothing to say, and the lines of her jumper have started to swim, so he leaves the pair, muttering something about finding Chris and PJ. He hasn’t found them, and he doesn’t intend to.

He leans against an empty wall instead. The hand holding his drink is bent perpendicular, supported by his other hand, but he doesn’t drink from it. He watches Phil and the girl - she never did say her name - talk for a second, thinking that he can just about hear Phil’s voice over the music. His brain hurts and feels like it’s lined with tin foil, so he blinks hard. He waits for the colours to settle before looking around.

The house, Dan discovers, is made from the rooms connected roughly together. The lounge soaks through to the dining room, with only a jut in the wall to show where the wall used to be, and it makes the space stretch out the length of the house. A door at the far end is propped open, and the snippet of cracked tiles suggests it’s the kitchen. Considering it’s a Christmas party, the room is surprisingly desolate of decorations, with no such thing as a bauble in sight. Dan’s never been to a university party - which must be a fucking record for a fresher - but he guesses this is what a typical party is like. Only, this one must be more subdued; it’s practically ‘suitable for work’, and grinding has been replaced for chatting with a drink in one hand. The alcohol must have not set in yet.

As he pretends to memorise the faces of everyone he can see, Chris and PJ remain missing in action. He’s beyond caring already; he’s given up on giving a fuck about who he knows and who he talks to. (The answer is most probably near no one, anyway.)

Dan’s been isolated on the edge of havoc for a good twenty minutes, ship wrecked and sinking in a sea of white noise. The biting alcohol has started to warm in his hand, untouched since he decided his headache was enough. He may have sacrificed himself for this party, but he doesn’t want a damn hangover because of it.

He’s had to brush off several people already - and, God, he wishes Louise were here. But she’s already gone home for Christmas, and oh, fuck, of course: he’s going home tomorrow.

Dan twirls his wrist and grimaces at the whirlpool of liquid which forms. Barely half a cup in and he’s already forgetting things.

“Hey, loner boner.”

Dan can’t conjure a smile at the peculiar presentation of words, because this is bordering on odd, and _what are the rules of laughing at a stranger’s jokes?_

He’s too conscious of his astringent knuckles on the cup and the liquor dousing his brain. He rearranges his fringe with fingers which have started to numb, and looks up to the mackle in his vision.

The stranger is a person with static curtains of faded black hair and pale skin sheltering grey eyes. Their lips are cracked, muted rose as they grin slightly. Dan swallows and tries to use what he’s got left of his sober mind to call on his witty, socially-ept self.

“That was beautiful,” he remarks in the end, gives a belated smile. The fabric of their t-shirt swells as they shrug, still grinning.

“I try my best,” they say, taking a sip from their cup. Traces of chapstick stain the damp paper. “Point is, you are the absolute life and soul of the party over here, so I thought I’d join you.”

Dan smiles despite himself. “You’re not the only one who tries their best, you know.”

“True. So, who’d you come with?”

“My friends.”

“Where are they?”

Dan fixes his gaze back on the room again, as if he’s been wrong for the past twenty-five minutes, and Chris and PJ will suddenly appear. Maybe Chris is making out with someone in a corner, maybe PJ is telling a tipsy story to whomever will listen. “I don’t know.”

“They’re not great friends, then, are they?”

Dan opens his mouth, hesitates. They wink.

“I’m kidding. Don’t worry, mate.”

“Oh, okay. Did you come with anyone?”

“Nah, I just came for the alcohol.”

They take another swig, smirking around the brim as he maintains eye contact.

“Want some more?” they ask, nodding at Dan’s own cup.

Dan follows their gaze. He hasn’t had any for a while, but the taste still clings to his teeth and the edge of his fluted lips.

“No, thanks.”

“Fair enough.” They carelessly shrug, settling back against the drywall. Their eyeliner is starting to smudge, and Dan catches sight of the blur of graphite makeup on their lids as they flutter their eyes shut for a few seconds, taking a long sip.

Dan can’t pinpoint exactly what about the last few seconds of talk has made an impact on him, but he knows that he is no longer deterred by their company. Their roundabout kindness and entertaining persona, complete with a permanent, almost synthetic, smile on their lips intrigues him, and soon enough he likes them.

“What’s your name?” he asks, figures he could give into the loneliness and curiosity.

“Rebecca Austin, agender, emo extraordinaire,” they regale with a mocking tone, waving their arm across their body. “And, by the way, I am not interested.”

“I never said you were.”

“I never said you did. But, you know, no one expects anyone to be asexual.”

Dan smiles and nods. “I can support that. I’m not interested, too - for the record.” His eyes find Phil and Rebecca must realise because they follow his gaze.

“Is he one of your friends?”

Dan nods.

“Right.”

They focus on a spot on the opposite wall, and Dan doesn’t bother looking because there’s nothing there. He opts to say no more on the matter.

“So, Not Interested, who are you?” Their gaze doesn’t falter.

“Right, I’m Dan Howell, and I utterly detest dad jokes.”

They spare him a glance before holding their hand out, “Honour to meet you, Dan Howell.”

“And you, Rebecca Austin.”

“Have I taken your drunk stranger virginity?”

“Not quite. High school stole that from me.”

“Aw, man,” they slap their knee. “Now that’s a shame.”

“Drunk University virginity. You can have that.”

They ponder for a few seconds, they purse their lips. “Long name, but I can work with that.”

“Glad that’s sorted.”

He hears a flaccid sigh. The pair of them return their eyes to the wall, part way towards indelible, and Dan starts to trace the cracks in the plaster as they both fade into a stupor. From the infrequent glances Dan takes at them, he can see their brows furrow and their eyes glaze. He considers talking, but they seem content enough in their own headspace, and he doesn’t want to disturb them. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyway. He wonders if they’ve got any good food here. Probably not.

“So, Dan Howell,” Rebecca begins after an indeterminable length of time, “what’s there to know about you?”

“Nothing, really.” The dessicated syllables squirm through the voids in his teeth and he watches the space between his socked feet where the words might have landed. Splat.

Rebecca clicks their tongue against the back of their teeth. Dan can barely hear it over the noise.

“You’re not making it easy for me, you know,” they say. He knows.

Rebecca doesn’t speak again, fixes their gaze on the wall and drinks, and it’s only after a while that Dan realises it’s because they’re waiting for him. His peripheral catches sight of Phil again, far away and grinning. Dan averts his gaze before his stomach topples over. Well, he has no one else to talk to.

“I study law,” he starts uncertainly, leaping from word to word like they’re stepping stones perched on a ravine. The smile which creeps onto their face is not what he was expecting, but he blinks twice, and it’s still there. Rebecca shifts around to face him, inclines their head and rests it on their rugged knees.

“That’s good. Keep going.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything else to say,” but there is, because he finds them. Words, in corners and amongst rusty lyrics and mislaid bookmarks and dog hair. Dan knows that someone will always wonder and ask after something, and he knows that conversations are only meant to work if one person asks and the other answers. Yet, he’s managed to evade notice and voice opinions on other people and things instead of himself. But now he’s talking, his mouth running dry and his words channeled between calculated breaths, and Rebecca’s prompting may be the driving force but he’s started to fall - so he can’t stop.

(He’s done that a lot, recently.

Falling.)

He finds memories he didn’t know he had, and he avoids the parts which make him cringe as he uncovers them. His talk is patched with short recounts, and Rebecca laughs at things he doesn’t think are funny, but he laughs too.

“What about you?” he asks when he’s afraid to continue, and the safe waters have run dry. “What’s there to know about you?”

They tell him about how they moved house when they were young and it didn’t mean a thing, and how, now, they can’t bear the change. They tell him about their trip to the corner store last week and how they like to open the window during storms. Rebecca studies Literature and creative writing, and Dan knows he should bite his tongue on how Phil took that, too. But he doesn’t, and Rebecca curves their lips and asks if Phil’s the one over there, using their cup to point at a faraway point of the room. Dan nods, and they smile wider.

The party becomes louder, and even their whispers are hoarse and hollow, rough in the battle with heavy offbeats. They move closer to hear each other, two bodies huddled against a wall and a wooden chest of drawers filled with fuck knows what. As they start to drain their cup, Rebecca’s movements become more languid and reckless, and they don’t slur their words but Dan can tell the alcohol is taking effect. Their cheeks are flushed, the colour mild and liquid-like in the glare.

“I like cute girls,” they say wistfully. “Do you like cute girls?”

“No, but I can see the appeal.” Dan smiles because there’s nothing else he can do. His head is clogged with electricity and vinegar and preposterous somethings, and seeing Phil out of the corner of his eye is making the room spin.

(He looks out of place, with such calm prettiness drowning within the roar of uncontrolled pulses.)

Rebecca hums. “It’s not plural. It’s her. She’s like-” They pause, trying to find words and articulate them. “She’s like springtime and hurricanes. I just want to cuddle and kiss lazily and watch movies, is that odd?”

“No, not at all,” Dan assures them. He can relate.

They collapse into silence and Dan sees how long he can go without blinking. Everything is pounding in his ears, his veins coiling like broken cables under his skin, and he’ll need to get out soon.

“I’m scared,” they whisper. It’s weird to think that only two people amongst dozens hear the words, a secret amongst abandon and apathy.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Dan can relate again, and he bites his lip as he finds their hand to give it a squeeze.

“I think you should go for it,” he says eventually.

Practise what you think, Dan thinks bitterly -  no chance.

-

Once they’ve emptied their cup, Rebecca stands and wipes under their eyes. They leave him with an iMessage contact and the promise that it may not be correct, but _“I’m sure I’ll see you around campus; you’re one of those law kids, right?”_

Dan collapses against the wall for a few moments before he manages to drag himself to standing. The party is starting to hurtle towards dangerous and nausea, with rings of people taking shots on the ground, and smoke and flashing neon eddying in violent rips. He stumbles on his feet, but at least he blends in.

Dan finds Phil easily enough, considering, and his lips are kept in a firm line as he taps his shoulder and nods to the exit. Phil smiles in greeting, and leads the way.

“About time,” Phil says, once the noise has been obstructed by the door. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Barely anything,” Dan replies, sticking his feet in his shoes and zipping up his creased jacket.

“Same here.” Phil tugs on his coat. “Let’s go, then.”

The night is clashing chords smashed into a nuclear energy which tingles on Dan’s skin as he steps out, Phil close on his heels. He hasn’t bothered to put his shoes on properly, so the worn fabric folds under his heel in a broken zigzag, and his laces smack the ground in a whiplash. The road is silent and saturnine, the garden deserted. Phil’s hair is mussed up over his shining eyes.

“There’s no one getting pissed in the garden,” Dan notes in surprise. “Unless - they’re all round the back, aren’t they?”

“Probably.”

“What’s the time?”

“Just gone nine.” Phil slides his phone out of his pocket to see.

“So it’s barely been an hour,” Dan says.

“I don’t know about you, but anymore and I would’ve died.”

Dan tries not to laugh. “Same here.”

“It’s not that late, do you want to grab a coffee or something?”

“Classic Phil Lester chat up line,” Dan quips.

“Yeah, no.”

“You sure?”

“Answer the question, Dan.”

“Sure,” he says, because in his edge-away-from-sober, astir mind, any chance to spend more time with Phil is a chance worth taking.

-

The walk into the town centre is taken up by a lulling silence, which is fine, really, because Dan’s trying to pick apart whatever is happening in his brain and his legs are tremulous, and he fumbles with his keys when they stop at Dan’s house so he can grab a coat. Dan is totally not scared of the dark, but he makes Phil stay outside due to the tip his room is in, and he has the feeling that he’s never been in and out of the house that quickly before. Anyway.

It doesn’t take long to find a 24/7 store which sells coffee, and Dan waits for Phil to pour a sachet of sugar into his cup before they wander out onto the streets. They end up on a bench facing a line of shops, all of which are shrouded in clumped indigo and the reflection of flashing signs. Their skin catches fragments of moonlight. They both wrap their fingers around the paper, Dan holding his close to his chest and taking tentative sips. Slowly, he pulls his coat and arms closer to his core and wills that it will be enough to stop any shivering.

Half of these shops he hasn’t been in, ever. There’s the old pharmacist with its hackneyed, dim sign that stretches the length of the dingy room; the bargain store with lurid posters tacked to its darkened windows that contain countless stationery sets; Dan’s not even sure what the store entitled _Bliss Global_ sells, but he’s positive he doesn’t want to. The antique-slash-charity shop has a crooked table with the ornate legs residing in the window, has done ever since Dan came. They’re not even in the proper centre of town, where all the big shops are, but the area still has its fair share of lights to splash onto the windows.

“Did you know that geese have two sets of teeth?” Phil says after a short length of time. Dan lowers his cup back to his lap.

“Seriously? Are you joking?”

“No. It’s actually really weird,” Phil answers. “I would show you a picture, but funnily enough I don’t have any saved to my phone, and I’m not wasting my 3G on you.”

“Wow. I’m enlightened and charmed.”

“Think of it as an early Christmas present,” Phil says easily. “Do you want another?”

“Not really, but if you insist.”

Phil muses for a second, and Dan’s ready to complain about late delivery when he speaks, “Koalas have two sets of genitals. Apparently, that is. I can’t vouch for anything.”

Dan fights to keep his drink in his mouth.

“Jesus Christ, you really do let loose after watershed.”

Phil only laughs when he sees Dan’s expression. Dan watches how the light in his eyes shimmers and it looks like a river during a thunderstorm.

The left side of his face might just be numb by now but Dan can’t find himself caring, just feels a lopsided smile on his mouth and sees it wholly in his reflection; across the expanse of metres, he’s catching his own eye in the glass and it is scarily captivating. Then he moves his eyes and they snag on Phil’s own and the smile bites harsher.

Phil is sipping his coffee in the gap between conversations and Dan’s thinking about how he doesn’t know him. Dan’s looking at him and he knows where he works and where he lives, but he doesn’t know what passes behind his eyes on a daily basis and what he’d use to describe someone he loved. They’ve verged on it before, but have never thrown themselves in head-over-heels. He’s found about a stranger and now he wants to find out about Phil.

“What’s there to know about you?” he asks before he can reconsider. Phil pulls his cup away from his lips, and the pause is long enough for Dan to wonder if he ever said anything at all.

“How do you mean?” The question isn’t cutting or doubtful, just quiet, teetering on the edge of a whisper and it is distant like he’s already started thinking about it.

Dan swallows thickly, his nails etching pink dents into his palm.

“Not generic things. Just, small things which you remember, make you happy, which matter for some unknown reason. I don’t know. I’m not making sense.”

“No,” Phil turns and pensiveness stares out at him in plaits, bores into Dan’s gaze, “No, you’re definitely making sense.”

Dan tries to avert his eyes, but he can’t.

“You don’t have to answer.”

Phil’s lips are wetted and sparkling from the too-hot coffee and a timid breeze has run its fingers through his hair before setting it back not quite right, “I want to. I’ve never really thought about it before, but I want to. It’s a good idea.”

They’re the only ones on the road, their reflections deceiving and distant as Dan stares back at a blank shop window - but he already knew that, knew he would only see a ghost of outline. The air is biting, dazed by a fragile fog which leaves a path of refutable colours along the street. Phil’s body is summery beside him, and if Dan shifts closer, it’s purely for body heat.

When Phil speaks, his sentences have no structure or limits, and Dan replaces the stench of mould and damp for the aroma of coffee and Christmas and fantasy.

Phil likes boiled sweets and the idea of typewriters and the instrumental side of a song. He likes singing along to Disney songs when he’s home alone. He tells Dan about how he cried when his childhood self’s dog passed away, and how he used to take his story books and make up words to pretend he could read them. He tells Dan of how he fell out of an oak tree and broke his wrist when he was eleven because he liked to pretend he could fly. _You’re an idiot,_ Dan says; _I know_.

“I like the nighttime,” Dan offers in return, deja vu rolling around and off the base of his tongue, and doesn’t feels foolish as he continues. He likes when it’s windy over countryside fields, he says, and he likes thinking about who else is looking at the clouds or stars when he is. They both like the smell of old book shops and the feel of silent company.

Dan likes fairies between ink laced pages, the sunset after a lullaby storm, and the blistering galaxies destruction leaves in its wake, but he doesn’t say it.

(He also doesn’t say that Phil reminds him of all three.)

He looks like the ethereal cusp of a fairytale in the moonlight. Fabular, the traces of a halation.

Once he’s finished drinking, Dan crushes the cup between his fingers, digging his nails in between the creases. It is swirling in his head like sloshing, bitter coffee: _fairy boys did you know you’re a fairy boy i like stormy sunsets and galaxies and you apparently  - well shit._

“I make wishes when I like to pretend,” Dan says instead, “Only then.” The squashed paper is too thick to be a fairy wing.

“I make wishes for you,” Phil says, offbeat and trembling. “For your benefit, I mean. I make wishes because you don’t.”

His statement is a load of questions rolled into one, mainly _how do you know_ ’s and _why_ ’s, but at the same time, Dan thinks he may have answers.

“I remember,” Phil says - restarts. His coffee cup is held out diagonal to him with a limp arm. “In Geography one time, we were looking at the environment and we were told that the sea levels would rise by seventy metres, I think it was. And, this boy, he turns to his friend and goes, _that’s like seventy of you_ , in the most dumb voice you can imagine, and the face his friend pulled, I just,” and he’s laughing, and then Dan’s laughing like his chest is being ripped apart strip by tingling strip. The sounds lash out like cat-o-nine-tails into the air.

The moment is forgotten.They’re drunk off decaffeinated coffee and nighttime; boys who wish on dandelions and like to pretend they’ve forgotten what time is.

-

It is late by the time they feel the need to stand and depart. Dan’s head still feels like it’s swimming, especially when he looks at the streetlamps, and the coffee’s tartness clings around his teeth.

“You’re leaving early tomorrow and I won’t see you, so,” Phil begins, pulling Dan into a welcome hug.

“Don’t remind me.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Phil pats Dan’s back once in finality before pulling back and for some reason it hands him the desire to laugh all over again.

“Have a great Christmas.”

Dan gives a watery smile. “And you.”

“You’d better message me.”

“I will, but you can’t blame me for Facebook’s shitness, though.” He acts on a whim, he knows, but it’s too late now.

“I’ll message you my iMessage,” Phil promises, and frowns at the slight irony. “You should come back a day early and have dinner with Laura and me. A late Christmas thing. Laura would love to meet you properly.”

Feeling under waiting surveillance, Dan nods slowly. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Great. We’ll sort out details later.” Phil stifles a yawn, “Goodbye ‘til next time, then.”

“Yeah, bye.”

Dan watches Phil walk away before heading home, and he’s still clinging onto the paper cup to fill the absence in his hand.

-

_his name is disguise and his name is apathy. his pass time is staring at the stars and watching for heart beats and on cloudy nights he might as well be made of marble_


	7. chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> even more christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was a mistake with this (i posted chapter 6 twice) but it should be okay now!!

The temperature quickly declines over the next few days, condensation leaving the window sills pooling with still water. Dan would happily keep himself to himself and stay in his room, but he has to go out for presents, family outings and, as his mum tells him when he first returns, to ‘ _blow out the cobwebs’._ When he does go out, he nests his face in an old scarf to keep warm, biting the material to stop it from falling, and burrowing his clenched fists deep into his coat pockets. People visit, and he finds new ways to conjure up a smile and a laugh. He’s glad to see his family, but he’s also thankful that it’s not his turn to visit others half way across the country.

Apart from a ‘Merry Christmas’ and a bundle of emojis, Dan hears nothing from Phil on Christmas day. As it nears midnight, he fumbles for his iPod and, having now got Phil’s iMessage, presses his finger to the audio call option; he gets no response except the acceleration of a beating heart soaking into the lamplight. He lets the dial tone ring out as long as he can. The waiting brings his gaze to his room, and it focuses and unfocuses but it is agitated enough to notice. Everything has withered to emptiness, the bed shoved to the wall and the fresh wounds in the curtains left unmended. All objects are hidden away in uniform structures, the wardrobe no longer spilling out onto the carpet; there’s a group of impressions in the carpet where the desk used to be. The remaining few books lean against a black hole.

(Black holes snatch away sound and Dan just wants to hear Phil’s voice.)

-

The following day, he’s stumbled onto a Facebook feed which could barely be his because he recognises so few of the names displayed, and it’s all just frugal graphics blurred by eye lashes and the hand pressed against one side of his face. He’s not paying attention until Phil’s posts appear on the screen, and he’s too tired to catch his heart as it jumps to his throat.

The screen boasts pictures of Phil and his family, Phil with his family; amongst them are posts he’s written that tell how he’s so glad to see everyone, and how the forecast has promised no snow but it’s so cold, with frost everywhere. But these don’t hurt the most - they shouldn’t hurt, none of this should hurt. What hurts the most are the pictures of Phil with his arm around Laura, the couple flanked by crystal, rolling hills, captioned with another recount of how glad he is to visit her family again. That shouldn’t hurt.

It is hurt, but that is not the right way to describe it: doesn’t sound numb enough. It’s rivulets of noxious black numbing his veins and arteries and the flesh in between; a dull pain that is so barely there, so often there, that it comes and goes uneventfully.

Dan’s smiling despite everything, can’t straighten his face no matter how hard he tries. He thinks he shouldn’t be smiling out of loyalty to himself, but then he shouldn’t be seething away at this either. The former statement, he concludes, is unbelievably dumb. It shouldn’t be confusing, shouldn’t carry purpose.

The light falling through the window bounces off the screen of his iPod lying on the bed beside him, and his eyes keep getting pulled to it. It looks like he’s getting notifications, but it’s just a trick of the light, and Dan feels taunted.

His old school friends have invited him out to the cinema to see a rerun of a Christmas film, and he tells himself that doing something will make him feel better about himself as he smooths down his hair and lets the screen light up once more - just to check - before placing his iPod into his pocket.

The film is Love Actually. Dan’s mind is cast back to Phil’s note and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

-

Dan rings Phil one last time, on the night before he leaves home for university again. The charcoal ether is black treacle filling his lungs, silent and stifling. Dan’s about to hang up and try to sleep when the call starts to connect, and his heart beats faster as he inhales sharply: stupid, stupid. Seconds later, he’s hearing Phil’s voice and his body isn’t fifty percent pining anymore.

“I threw a boomerang a few years ago and it hasn’t come back yet,” Phil says, voice like sedation and the hush of tides. Dan grins, pressing the device to his ear as he leans back against the pane of his window. A star focuses and unfocuses in his vision.

“Hello to you, too.”

“I live in constant fear that it will come back,” Phil continues. He sounds slightly abstracted, like he’s winding a loose thread around his fingers until bleached-red valleys appear in his flesh, or doodling on an envelope until the pencilled creations come to life or fill the space - whichever comes first.

“I understand.”

A plane skirts the sky, flashing between nostalgic blue and superficial red. The Doppler Effect states that items with blueshift are moving towards the observer.

“Hey, Dan, what do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back?”

“An asshole.”

Dan’s thinking of Phil’s eyes and the miles clawing out between them.

“Dan,” Phil chides lightly, “Do it properly.”

Dan sighs, his breath clouding the glass.

“I don’t know, Phil, what do you call it?”

“A stick.”

Dan hears Phil laugh to himself on the other end, muffled by the call.

“Only a loser laughs at his own jokes.”

“I’m not a loser.” Phil doesn’t sound one hundred percent for, or even bothered by, the cause.

“Clearly you are, Phil, because you’re laughing right now.”

“It was funny!” Phil insists.

“You’re just helping my case, here.”

“It _was_ , though.”

“No, Phil, listen; it wasn’t. Mine was better.”

“That’s debatable.”

“ _You’re_ debatable.” It’s pathetic and childish but Dan doesn’t have the energy to care. He’s taken in too many cracker jokes and seasonal scents for his brain to work properly.

Phil laughs again, quietly. Dan hears a stir as Phil moves.

“I miss you,” Phil says absently. There’s the thread again.

Dan’s stomach squirms. His eyes stop following the plane.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, biting his cheek.

“No.” Dan can picture Phil wrinkling his nose. “You know I don’t like alcohol.”

Dan frowns. “Do I?”

“I told you.”

“Not in so many words, clearly.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not drunk. Maybe sleep deprived.”

“Do you need to go to bed?” Dan condescends.

“Already there, thanks.”

“Go to sleep, then.”

“Alright, Mum. I was just saying I miss you.” It’s hard for Dan to keep his nonchalant mentality stable when Phil keeps repeating that phrase.

“You’re tired and you’re seeing me tomorrow. Sleep.”

Dan won’t admit that he misses Phil, too. He means it differently, anyway, and that difference will drop along with his heart.

Phil yawns. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Dan says breathily in triumph.

“See you tomorrow,” Phil mumbles, voice evanescing. “Night, Dan.”

Dan smiles gently. “Night, Phil.”

Phil hangs up, and Dan stares at the screen for too long before he turns it off.

He wishes on condemned satellites and glow-in-the-dark stars because there’s no harm in trying.

-

_the prince and the princess fell in love and i know that we can do that, too. that we can find each other and fall in love together_

-

Dan got the correct train tickets as soon as his mother said he could leave early to go to Phil’s for dinner. His train leaves at noon, and Dan is still packing at quarter past eleven. Fortunately for him, most of his belongings are still in his student house, meaning all he has to do is throw any extra items he thinks he might possibly need into a backpack. All the same, the stress is there, hurrying him along as his mum calls up the stairs again. His hands find the sealed pack of post-it notes, an impromptu buy in the city centre newsagents when he was buying some milk. He picks it up and ponders for a second, before letting it drop back down onto the carpet. He thinks it is better if the note thing remains as unacknowledged as possible. A second later, he bends down and picks it up again - he could use them even if he doesn’t gift them. He sends Phil a quick text to say he’s leaving before he heads for the train station, sending up a prayer of thanks to the packing gods, whoever they may be.

-

Stopping by his student house, Dan drops the bag on his unmade bed and searches for the comb he’s sure he put in that drawer. Inert and biting, the rooms are imbued with an all-encompassing, stifling atmosphere due to them being left, abandoned, for a few weeks. Dan’s tempted to throw open a window, or light a fire to warm them up, or both, but he’s already late, and neither of the two are the most wise idea.

-

Phil opens the door with a wide smile, pulling Dan into a hug before he has a chance to apologise for being late. Dan is momentarily surprised, before he rests his hands on Phil’s shoulders, settling into the cordial embrace.

“Did you have a good Christmas?” Phil asks, his chin moving against the junction of Dan’s shoulder as he speaks.

“Yes,” Dan says, because lying has started to intrigue him, to leave an enticing taste on his tongue. “You?”

“Yes, thank you. And we’re about to have another one.” He grins, stepping aside to allow Dan inside. The familiar scent has been replaced by the fervent smell of gravy and roast dinner.

“Laura’s just getting the rest of the food dished out so that I could answer the door. I was helping before, I promise,” Phil informs.

Dan snorts. “Sure, I believe you.”

“I removed all the decorations from the dining room, though! I figured you wouldn’t want to find tinsel or a chewed turtle dove in your roast potatoes.”

“Well, you got that right,” Dan says, looking around at the hall, now seasonally decorated. Tinsel is snaked over the mirror, and a small tree is decorated profusely with fairy lights and baubles. Phil’s found a hideous Christmas sweater from somewhere - which must be an achievement in itself, to find one quite like that, and Dan is in half a mind to complain. At the same time, the sight makes him fond, and maybe he is smitten, so he stays quiet.

“Did I add that the turtle dove would be a decoration?” Phil asks.

“No. No, you didn’t,” Dan replies, shaking his head and breathing out a laugh.

“Well it is, don’t worry. I don’t have an actual turtle dove to plant in your food.”

“That’s good to hear, thank you, Phil.” Dan pulls a confused face before Phil laughs it off, beckoning him into the next room.

The dining room table is decked with several china serving dishes, all filled with a variety of food, including vegetables, potatoes and pigs-in-blankets; a few condiments are dotted around, and the three plates already have a slab of turkey each. Laura is just setting the gravy jug on the table as the pair enter, and she looks up with a kind smile. Dan gains a look of astonishment when he eyes the spread.

“Did you make all this?” Dan enquires, looking between them.

Laura is the one to answer. “Nah, it was all Phil. And even then, it’s mainly just Aunt Bessie’s and ready made stuff from Sainsbury’s, so don’t give him too much credit,” she jibes with another, more devilish grin.

“Shut up! I spent ages reading those packets several times to make sure I got the oven temperature right.”

“I’m sure you did great,” Dan says derisively.

“I really did.”

“We can be the judge of that,” Laura quips, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

“I knew this would happen,” Phil says in one last ditch attempt to regain some sort of dignity, and Dan says as such.

“What do you mean _some_ dignity?” Phil scrutinizes.

“You lost most of it ages ago,” Dan dismisses.

“I’m just going to eat and pretend this never happened,” Phil says, and he takes a seat, pulling out one for Dan around the table corner from himself, so that the trio will coalesce at the head of the table.

“There’s still a fucking lot of it,” Dan remarks, drawing on his first comment.

“That’s probably for my own benefit,” Laura replies with a wink.

“You really didn’t have to do any of this,” Dan insists.

“It’s nothing.” Phil nudges Dan’s leg with his toe. “You’re too humble. Eat.”

Dan gives up on arguing.

The curtains have been left open to let in the rhododendron sunset, and Dan’s gaze slips between Phil, Laura and the view as they chat. It provides a good place to rest his eyes when staring off into space.

Laura is funny and gracious, and Dan figures that he may as well let himself like her. She holds a conversation with Dan about a new album from a mutual favourite artist, and makes a mix of bad puns and witty, sarcastic remarks that make Dan glad he’s not eating or drinking at the time of telling. Her and Phil make funny repartees that Dan joins in with by the end of the evening, and the pair of them seem to silently agree that having both hands to eat with is easier than losing one for hand holding. Dan silently sends thanks for the absence of affectionate displays.

“So what do you do with your time?” Dan asks Laura later on.

“Animation. I didn’t think I was that great at drawing, but it turns out it’s good enough for a job, so that’s good. Only cartoons, though. My realistic stuff is shit.”

Dan spears another carrot with his fork. Laura’s deprecating, truthful nature appeals to him.

“It must be quite fun, though.”

“Oh, yeah, it really is. We’ve got customers asking for all sort of things, posters, gifs, adverts - now those are more fun than they sound.”

“‘Are you experiencing toiletry issues?’” Phil inputs in a deep voice.

“Yes, exactly like that!” Laura exclaims. “How did you know?”

“I just had a feeling.”

“A bad one,” Dan adds, and it feels natural to laugh along with them, like maybe he is not intruding.

-

The sky has settled for a chalky black when they have finished.

“Do you want any help?” Phil offers as Laura starts to gather the plates together with a series of clarion clinks.

“Nah, I think I’m fine,” she declines.

“I’ll help,” Dan announces, standing. “It’s the least I could do.”

Laura regards him for a second, and Dan returns the gaze with a look of conviction.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Honestly, it’s fine.” Dan scoops up a pile of crockery. Laura nods finally, smiles in thanks, and Dan follows her through to the kitchen.

“They can go in the dishwasher.” Laura nods at the plates Dan’s holding. He nods, _right,_ and starts unloading them, Laura doing the same.

“Thanks for coming, Dan. It was great to meet you properly.”

“And you.”

“I hope you enjoyed yourself? God, that sounds weird, but, I mean, I’m not good at this social malarky.” She laughs to herself, short and veering on cold, “and the food was all Phil, so.” She pulls a face.

“Nah, you were great, too.” They’re sticking with small talk, Dan conscious that Phil is just the other side of the door.

“If we’re going with the whole compliments thing, then you were also pretty fantastic. Phil looked really happy in there.”

Dan shrugs, feeling oddly uncomfortable. “He’s a happy guy.”

Laura hums to herself. She sounds unconvinced, to Dan’s growing apprehension. “You’re a good friend.” Her gaze lifts and locks with Dan’s for a second. “I’m glad he has you.”

And, okay, that should reassure him and take the disquiet away; all it does is bolster it.

Dan can’t help but pause as his forehead creases. “He has you, too.”

The door is closed but they’re talking in hushed undertones, now.

“I am, and I’ll support him no matter what, but he -” she bends down to stash another plate away, and, at the last moment, it slips from her fingers, landing - unharmed, but with a clatter - between the spokes of the dish washer. “I don’t know. Just make sure he knows that he’s got you.”

“Why?”

“Can you put this over there?” she asks, pointing from the tea towel she’s holding to the radiator across the room.

“No, Laura, what do you mean?”

She tries on a smile but it doesn’t fit. Dan’s getting the impression she’s trying to drown out the speech with the collision of china - each knife and fork thrown into the sink separately, _crashcrashcrash_ \- and suddenly he’s paying full attention, chore left to the side for the moment.

“I need him to be free to do whatever he wants. I want him to know that and be supported,” she says plaintively and nods in confirmation - to herself, Dan thinks.

“Why? What’s happening?”

“You know,” she says as she leans down to survey the control pad of the machine, “you’d think, after several years using this thing, I’d remember how to use it by now.”

“Laura.”

“I’ve just got a bad feeling,” she admits after a pause, scaling over and around the truth with words painted a bruised blue. “But it’s not bowel problems, um.” She gives him a watery smile, and Dan’s chest fills with sympathy.

“Hey, it’ll be okay.”

Exhaling slowly, she says, “It will be. I know.” She groans quietly, anxiously pushing her hair back with her fingers. “I don’t know why I told you that.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You’re doing a great job already.”

“Thank you.”

Laura smiles back at him and nods once more before leaving the room.

Dan closes the dishwasher with a thud and refuses to dwell on what she means. Phil’s behaviour has made him concerned, too, and Dan doesn’t know what to make of that - of any of this. He knows Phil and him will not talk about it: they will treat this just like everything else that matters. Maybe that isn’t true, they have talked about some things - tame things, mild things, though, and as soon as anything that concerns their feelings comes along, it is avoided. He will just have to stand back and wait for time to roll around.

He makes his way back to the dining room. In his place on the table is a gift, carefully wrapped in a royal red.

“You didn’t have to,” Dan objects as he runs his nail along the edge of a scrap of tape.

“I did,” Phil says simply. “Merry Christmas, Dan.” Phil is too kind, too kind and lovely and Dan thinks back to his own gift and fights back a cringe.

He rolls his eyes and prises the paper apart. Underneath, hidden under the folds, is a book: ‘The Night Circus’, monochrome cover splashed with red and printed in hardback. Dan bites back a smile and he runs his fingers over the artwork in an effort to distract his hands from their urge to hold Phil’s. A peep of colour coaxes Dan to flip open the cover.

_“The Night Circus, a place of magic and mystery and long words, etc. Merry Christmas!”_ he reads, and grins around his teeth. “Thank you. So much.” He looks back up as he says this. (The emotion that slips in too early makes him worry he is talking about more than the book.) I’ll be right back.” He dashes into the hall, finds the small present concealed in his coat pocket, and returns.

“It’s a bit small and crap,” Dan gabbles, and it is synonymous with _i had no fucking clue what to get you when you got a perfect thing for me i’m so sorry_ but no one needs to know, “but Merry Christmas.” He collapses back into his chair and watches as Phil unwraps his gift, a notepad and a phone case - clearly Dan’s originality was running high that day - and promises Dan a thank you hug when he can actually stand.

“I didn’t get you anything, I’m sorry,” Dan says to Laura, but she just shakes her head.

“You really don’t need to, don’t worry. It was great seeing you,” she replies, and her eyes speak knowingly as she gives a grateful nod.

-

Phil hugs him tightly - _as promised,_ he says - on the doorstep. Dan wishes he could cling to the warmth, just for now, but the last thing he desires is to look weird and simultaneously miss the last bus, so let go he must.

“Good luck with uni. I’ll see you soon?”

“As soon as I can manage, yeah,” Dan affirms, “But no promises. Thank you, again.”

“Thank _you._ ”

“Right, whatever.”

“See you then.” It would seem that Phil knows better by now than trying to cavil at Dan’s comments, reacting with little more than an eye roll.

“Yeah. Bye.”

Washed-out petals of colour fill his gaze as he goes. Whilst walking through the night, Dan can’t help but want to ask the flowers what it’s like to be so alive in a time so dark.

-

_i’m torn between the sun and the moon because one is ever so precious and needed but the other is devastatingly beautiful and wanted. and i have to choose because the twilight fades, it always fades._

-

Phil’s notes are about love and Dan has to try and quell the effervescent elation that bristles in his stomach. Because he shouldn’t be letting his hopes rise like this, shouldn’t be thinking this way when he’s in a relationship, and goddammit if he doesn’t stop soon. But he hasn’t had to deal with _this_ before: Phil’s writing allows Dan to know the love which most certainly lines Phil’s stomach, and then compare it to the feeling in his own. It makes everything seem more real. It’s in a twisted way, though, and in a way he doesn’t understand if he thinks too hard about it, but nevertheless, it creates an opportunity out of ground azurite and internal dissent.

Maybe he is losing it. He swears aloud every time he finds himself doing it - _again, for fuck’s sake_ \- and even if he doesn’t sort out the whole _i’m pining hopelessly for my taken best friend_ thing, it figures that he should work on a better, more clandestine response. One of these days he’ll come across a note in the library and let an elegant “fuck” fall from his lips, and even if a disdainful mother won’t ask after it, Chris or PJ definitely will.

The love Phil feels necessary to display is not for him, so he tries his best not to care.

( _Fuck you, Phil, seriously fuck you._ )

He tries his best not to care that sometimes Phil will text him for long periods of time, and that Phil could possibly the most precious person in all of history, in Dan’s intoxicated opinion. He tries not to care about the fact that he is awfully pretty - unfairly so, as far as Dan’s pulse is concerned. He tries his best not to care that Phil once watched all the Lord of the Rings films in one sitting to find out how long it would take instead of Googling it, or the time Phil wondered aloud what the bubbles that appear when a fizzy drink has just been poured taste like, and proceeded to get them up his nose when he investigated. He tries not to care that his friendship is doomed by its request for something more. Apathy could be the new heart healer and there’s only one way to find out.

Dan sincerely hopes Phil isn’t doing this for schadenfreude.

-

Chris manages to drag them to the film he’s been talking about for several months, and luckily for him the incessant drizzle has taken a day off, or Dan wouldn’t be going. A good ten minutes away, the bus stop is no compromise. It isn’t like they have any other way to get there, what with their lack of a car. But the air is cool, and _dry_ , most importantly, and the sun is shining at just the right angle to nearly blind him, so Dan’s out of bed at near noon, in fear of Chris yanking him out of it himself. It’s happened before, and Dan hasn’t forgiven Chris for drenching his bed sheets in freezing cold water.

He’s presentable enough as he shuffles down the stairs, flicking his fringe aside before opening the door to welcome Chris. Through the glare, he can see the sandwich currently occupying his friend, and doesn’t expect a greeting in reply.

“It’s too early,” Dan complains, leaning against the slim door frame to prove his point.

“It’s gone noon, you slob,” Chris replies, jerking his head behind him as a prompt for Dan to hurry the fuck up. Dan rolls his eyes but slams the door behind him, settling into a pace beside Chris.

“You’re still finishing your breakfast.”

“I’ll have you know that this,” Chris lifts the endings of the bread as a prop, “is just an afternoon snack.”

“Yeah, Chris, we all believe you.”

Chris swallows a large bite and fixes Dan with a disdainful glare.

“There’s only one of you,” Chris addresses Dan’s remark before continuing, “and you have no witnesses. It never happened.”

“Are you sure you’re able to get into this film?” Dan asks, in lieu of continuing what is probably a losing battle for both sides.

“It’s, like, a fifteen.”

“Exactly.”

Chris stops chewing to give him a disbelieving shake of his head.

“What a wanker.”

And - well, rude.

They meet with PJ on the way, and he’s so engrossed in his phone as he walks down to Dan’s house that he nearly walks past them. It’s only when Chris yells “Oi, prick!” across the street that PJ looks up, straightening his posture as if he’s been caught guilty as he searches the surrounding space in surprise.

“We need to work on that,” he says once he’s successfully crossed the road to join them.

“Work on what?” Chris says, saccharine and ingratiating.

“The whole ‘throwing verbal abuse at people in a way of greeting them’ thing.”

“But you responded, which means that you are, actually, a prick.”

In PJ’s defense, the phrase has been prevalent in their dialogue for a long time - since long before they met Dan, he’s sure. PJ appears to have it all under control, though.

“That is the most stupid thing I’ve heard you say.”

“Don’t forget _Pub Toilet,_ ” Dan chips in.

“Oh yeah,” PJ says in recollection, the nickname resurfacing memories. “Second most stupid thing, then,” he rectifies.

Phil is the last to join them, a few minutes later and a bit flustered after his dash from the library to the street the cinema is on. Dan advertently ignores the heavy breathing now coming from his left, and the wind ruffled hair means absolutely nothing to him.

It’s a bit of a downer that Louise and Rebecca couldn’t make it, but he figures it means more popcorn for him. There’s only so much money they can afford to spend, after all.

“You realise that we have a good twenty minutes until the film starts? You didn’t have to run,” PJ is saying. There’s no laughter from Phil as he mutters an “ _oh_ ”. Dan frowns.

“Couldn’t Laura come in the end?” he asks suddenly, and swivels to look at Phil.

“What? Oh, no, she - family thing,” Phil stumbles - and Dan knows the question is random but he didn’t expect that degree of surprise. He looks to the others for an unspoken opinion, but they’re arguing over the casting for the film they’re about to see, so he allows the moment to pass.

They settle into their seats as the adverts are playing.

“My favourite part,” Chris whispers as he slides past Dan’s aisle seat. Then, “Couldn’t you guys have taken, I dunno, the middle seats?” as Phil tucks his legs in.

“You’re the one who wants to watch this,” Dan points out, “So you’re the one who can make the commitment. We might want to escape.” Phil lets out a small smile, amused and tentative and shaky, but says nothing.

Dan leans back into the bolstered seat and tries to adjust; the scent of popcorn is heavy around them, it’s warm and stifling, and the cinema screen’s lights are jabbing to the unadapted eye.

“I’ll put this here,” Dan whispers, balancing the box of popcorn on the armrest between him and Phil.

“It’s fine, you have it.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’m not in a popcorn mood.” Phil gives a grimace intended as a smile, and Dan sighs.

“‘Not in a popcorn mood?’ There’s no such thing,” he says with a jaunty type of smile. Phil lifts a shoulder half-heartedly, and Dan sighs again in surrender. “Are you sure? I mean, you love popcorn…?”

Phil shakes his head.

“Well, feel free to have some when you want,” he says finally, some small, stupid part of him feeling disappointed that a romantic cliche can’t happen.

And, indeed, the cliche does suffer, because Phil doesn’t reach for the box - traditionally striped in colour and bleached by the cinema lights - once throughout the screening. Dan also knows that the rest of the audience wouldn’t like him much if he asked what’s wrong, so he keeps quiet.

By the end of the film he’s in tears, one hand gripping the thin cushion and the other brushing at his cheek. He turns to Phil with the aim of eliciting a smile from the other at his decided patheticness, but gets no reaction, not even a passing glance. Phil’s eyes are set firmly on the screen, glassy and removed, his mouth in a weighted line.

-

“What do you think, Phil?”

“Hm?” Phil refocuses and looks up from his feet, chasmic depletion meeting the group of friends. The party walk out towards the exit, down the sloping corridor, Dan focusing on the adverts of upcoming films rather than the conversation he doesn’t have enough passion to maintain.

“What did you think of the film?” PJ expands patiently. Phil’s skin looks particularly pale against the unnecessary red of the carpet.

“It was good, yeah.”

“He didn’t cry,” Dan says. “He has a heart of stone.”

He’s watching him closely. Askance.

“Christina Perri could write a song about it,” Phil jokes, looking down at his chest as if it’ll reveal something.

“You do look like you’re coming down with a cold,” Dan agrees. It’s an expedient to ask after Phil’s downcast mood.

“I’m her muse,” Phil says with a broad grin and a short laugh. Dan almost forgets.

-

“Are you sure you’re not ill?” Dan asks the next day. He’s standing in front of Phil so that he can look him in the eye, the library a lilting calm around them.

“I’m fine,” Phil insists, passing another couple of books over to him.

“I’ve already got a few to work through,” Dan reminds him.

Phil’s expression passes into one of vacillation for a second as he looks at the books proffered in Dan’s hands. Just as he looks like he’s about to take them back, he presses his mouth into a fine line and shakes his head.

“Take all the time you need,” he finalises, and walks into another part of the library before Dan can argue.

-

_my first kiss was you and my last will be the ground above your cold head_

-

Dan figures, now he’s got rid of the workload he’s accumulated over the weeks, that this weekend would be the best time to work through the bundle of books he’s stashed away under his bed. The pile may be hidden, but he’s become overly conscious of it, and now that Phil has presented him with more, the grand total adds up to five. Even more frustratingly, he doesn’t know where to start, and so he’s eager to work through all of them. Considering a few are relatively thin and he’s been reading for a solid five hours already, it could be feasible.

His eyes keep travelling to the desk. His work is complete, but there’s the inherent feeling that it’s not done to the best it could be. Still, it’s done, and he’s finished one book already. He must be on a roll.

Dan has never really been aware of just how silent the space around him can be until now. It’s thick and unsettling as the sky darkens. And now that he’s acknowledged it, he can’t shake it off again. The house is empty, completely so - though that is a regular occurrence - and the road quiet, almost pensive. It is the type of silence that writhes, opaline and sickly, and it is decibels of detriment and solace that bicker in his ear. As he reads, it becomes impervious in his thoughts, and he tries to replace it with the words he’s reading, even muttering them under his breath. But within the loquacious text and between the elisions, he can hear the silence, a form of trepidation effacing the sound. It’s startling just how prominent and strong silence really is. He’s inadvertently digging through its depths before he attempts to drag his thoughts away. It grows as time passes, until he is ever aware of how much he desires to talk to someone: Phil, a friend, a cat. He has none of them in an attainable distance.

Dan sets some music as loud as he can, and settles back to the task at hand: one of the books Phil had lent him just yesterday. Managing to read steadily again, Dan soon comes across a note. He frowns, prising it off the page and running his thumb absently over the edge as he reads it again. It is not excessively negative, but it’s so out of character for Phil that Dan’s curiosity is stirred. Acting on a quiet instinct, he quickly flicks through the rest of the book. The process reveals another unsettling note. The feeling in his stomach acescent, he rummages around beneath his bed for the other book Phil had given him yesterday. Bringing his hand back up, book in hand, he recovers from the small balancing act and hurriedly uncovers a couple more notes, sloppy and dangerously - regrettably - bordering on maudlin. Dan lays them on the sheets before him, at a loss of what to do.

He feels like he’s intruding on something. It does explain Phil’s fleeting hesitance when handing them over, which is something; it doesn’t eradicate the visceral nerves, though. And what it doesn’t do is explain why Phil seems so frosty and distant; if anything, it deepens the mystery.

Dan straightens as he realises that, though it may not conclude his case, it does strengthen it. Phil had denied everything, but this suggests otherwise. It definitely wasn’t Dan imagining things, and Phil is certainly not ‘fine’.

Stretching over to grab his iPod, and experiencing a near miss with the carpet in the process, Dan deftly rights himself and sends Phil a message.

_dan: are you sure you’re okay?_

The message sends and comes across as horribly corny, but it will have to do, and so Dan settles back to wait. He stares at the plethora of notes displayed next to him as he does so, the words and phrases chopping and coming back together all askewed in his languid head. He refuses to read or sleep - midnight is far gone - until he’s certain he won’t receive a reply.

He’s about to give up and read when a notification alerts him. Muttering a noise of celebration, he picks up the device and reads.

phil: _yes. i’m fine, i told you. why keep asking?_

The reply is so predictable that Dan almost wants to laugh.

Dan takes an unskilled picture of a few of the notes as an answer, hoping that Phil will take the hint and explain.

_phil: oh. that._

_dan: yh, that._

Phil’s response is lazy and continues to leave the whole thing unexplained. Dan knows Phil knows, and it’s reached the point where he won’t let up until he comes to some kind of answer.

_dan: phil, please explain_

_dan: phil seriously_

_dan: i know you’re reading these_

He waits another minute or so on baited breath, then:

_dan: please. i’m worried for you. /about/ you._

He’s about to send another ( _i’m making wishes for you i’m making wishes for you_ ) when Phil’s message appears on screen.

_phil: i’m going for a walk_

The message baffles Dan.

_dan: phil it’s like 3am_

_phil: is it?_

_phil: oh. yeah_

Dan sighs audibly. The tone is clear and recognisable through the brazen letters of the screen.

_dan: ur still going arent u_

_phil: i just need to get out. just for a while._

And, well, if Dan wasn’t worried already, he is now.

_dan: come to mine, then. please._

He waits as long as he thinks he can sacrifice, with no reply.

“Ok, then,” Dan exhales, sweeping the notes and dusty sheets aside and clambering off his bed. His head jolts and swims at the sudden movement, and Dan steadies himself, searching for purchase on the crooked bed frame. The constantly growing part of his brain which is addled by sleep will have to wait for the moment. The last thing he needs is to fall asleep now, or when and if he finds Phil. (There is, of course, the possibility that Phil will fall asleep if Dan comforts him, as he is certain that the list of compliments he has is pretty long.)

Having not changed for bed, Dan only has to dig around in the conglomeration of unknown clothes for a jacket and pull it on before he’s ready to go. He swallows an exclamation as he stubs his toe in the doorframe, preferring to leave the silence undisturbed, and takes the stairs two at a time. He grabs for his keys, does up his jacket with a sharp ‘zip!’ and slams the door behind him.

The night is rotting around him.

The orange city glow stretches out over the bottom of the sky, reposing on the mix of illicit indigo and cloud. It will probably never stop puzzling Dan how it can still have the illusion of being light at three in the morning. He knows the premise; the cloud traps and reflects the light over and over, and the sight of dark, quintessentially nighttime sky is only possible on a completely clear night. Still, it’s unexpected, and conjures a completely different atmosphere.

Dan has managed to waken himself up slightly through the fresh air, blinking hard to adjust to the fluctuation between the brightness of streetlights and the dark shadow. He feels oddly out of place as he rushes along, pulling one step after the over. Everything is either quiet or shrouded in shadow; the silhouettes of the trees that rise over the house line move in a syrupy and lilting fashion, the wind a whisper and the houses faded into the background. Those three aspects are all there is out here. Dan is none of those things. It’s the time where even the latest sleepers are cleared from the scene, when Time snatches a couple hours of sleep, the only real energy in the city being the scintillating lights. The familiar hum of traffic is gone. The air almost seems emaciated because of it, a flimsy and delicate velvet.

Dan almost wants to slow his steps so that they make the least amount of noise possible. But he needs to hurry, for Phil’s sake and for the sake of finding him again before the sky brightens. Now’s not the time to get distracted.

Despite the soporific atmosphere and his brain’s current likeness to a whirlpool of anaesthetic, Dan manages to navigate the streets easily enough. His mind tumbles through the hope that his prediction is correct, and Phil is heading for the library - otherwise, he’s screwed. Concerns and options for if all goes wrong oscillate as fast as his feet whip the floor. A prayer that it won’t rain has long since been replaced with the hope that Phil is safe, the thought cantillating anxiously in his head.

Dan is relying on crossing Phil’s path near the library, so is surprised to see a silhouette traipsing towards him on the route to his house. Perhaps he was coming to Dan’s house after all, though out of habit or purpose he’ll never know.

“Phil!” Dan sighs in relief.

Phil doesn’t look up, so Dan calls again, louder, as he rushes towards him. Phil does look up this time, his pupils so bloated and his eyes so dark that Dan almost doesn’t recognise him.

“Hi,” Phil utters, and - _fuck_ \- Dan’s heart practically shatters.

He knows he should probably try and get the scope of the problem, but a part of him wants to hold Phil close for the rest of eternity - but that’s impossible. So Dan pulls him into a quick hug, wrapping his arms around Phil’s back and resting them on his shoulder blades. Phil’s arms stay slack at his sides.

“I was so fucking worried,” Dan exhales, and Phil shrugs. A thin hiatus falls over them, Dan’s sigh of breath clouding in it. “You’re not wearing a jacket,” Dan then says, tenderly, pulling back and when his hands linger at Phil’s sides, he kids that it’s to provide further comfort. Phil’s arms are bare and flushed with goose flesh, his fingers glacial as Dan takes one hand between both of his own. “Aren’t you cold?”

“A bit. I, uh, I forgot to put one on, I was -” Phil’s voice cracks and he clamps shut his mouth, blinking hard. Dan lets out a sympathetic mewl, chokes down words, and pulls him back to his chest again.

Above, the clouds roll close to the earth, curved milk glass with openings that reveal a broken snippet of aeviternity.

Phil starts to cry. His shoulders shake and he muffles sobs and he clings tightly onto Dan, but nothing wells up from the pit of his chest.

Salient shreds of garnet and diamond shake in Phil’s chest and Dan can feel them pressed against his own abdomen.

Dan’s heart sinks farther.

Dan hasn’t had cause to comfort someone in this way before, but the solution comes to him soon enough; he mutters sweet nothings and hushes into the cold of Phil’s neck, and smooths the fabric on his back. Phil’s skin is still too chilling against Dan’s own. Soon the crying dissolves into shaking, heaving breaths and Dan can feel the lift of Phil’s chest against his own.

His mind is on the verge of short circuiting - scintilla in hues of burning red sparking from his eyes and hands and chest - but so far he’s done well with not overthinking everything. He may want to know what’s happened to cause this, but at this moment he needs to focus on Phil, check he’s okay.

“We should get you inside and warm, yeah?” Dan says, withdrawing and, with his hands still on Phil’s upper arm, rubbing his thumb back and forth as he maintains eye contact. Phil’s eyes are diluted and an almost flaming crimson around the edges; this red matches his bitten lips, and a few tears are slipping over his cheeks. He nods, and Dan smiles tenderly, caressing his arm once more before dropping his hand to his side.

He begins to lead the way home. They walk slowly, kicking loose stones over the concrete and breathing through parted lips. They’re ghosts under a suffocated sky.

Something celestial has been extinguished in Phil’s eyes, and Dan wishes there were a way to breathe life back into them, to rekindle the look which used to be jovial and arcane. But there’s nothing, and all he can do is walk close to Phil and dare to brush hands every so often.

It’s odd, though, because the night doesn’t seem to be as scary now he’s not alone.

-

They remain silent the remainder of the walk, but by the end of it Phil has gained Dan’s jacket: Dan shrugged it off when Phil started to shiver, and hadn’t relented until Phil took it. It’s an almost perfect fit, with the arms not quite reaching the edge of his palms; they’re nearly the same height, after all, with Phil being just taller.

“There’s no one home, so you don’t need to be quiet,” Dan says as the door shuts them into the dark house. Phil does look tentative upon entering, but Dan only really says it to break the silence. Phil nods once, tremulous, watching Dan at a loss of anything to do.

“I’ll go find you some blankets.”

“Thanks.” It’s the first time Phil has spoken after crying, and the word is choked and raw on the sastruga of his lip. It belies the paltry grin he then finds.

“Do you want to wait in here, and I’ll be right back.” Dan nudges open the door and offers a smile as Phil traipses past, watching as he perches on the edge of the sofa. Dan nods once before hurrying up the stairs.

His bedroom door is still propped open when he walks past and into the bathroom. The books and notes are still strewn over the bed, just as he left them, perceivable against the sheets, and Dan wants to hide them away, cast them into amnesia, but he needs to return to Phil. He rummages in the cupboard, succeeds in finding and extracting two blankets from the shelves. After shutting the door of his room carefully, he continues back down stairs.

The lounge is barren, but Dan and his housemates have never had real cause to furnish it properly. The sofa faces the window and is slightly worn, but the fabric is soft and its body is covered in a few  carefully placed cushions. There’s an armchair in one corner and a coffee table in the centre, an old test paper folded and shoved under one of the legs to stop it wobbling. Save a bare mantelpiece, a slightly grimy mirror above this, and the window, there is no disruption to the salmon-coloured wallpaper.

Phil hasn’t moved in the time Dan’s been gone, his eyes still fixed to the window and his fingers wringing around each other. His skin looks almost translucent, pale and vampiric; his fingers writhe and are twisted in an achromatic version of a crown of thorns, placed ornately atop the quiver of his legs. The stoic cast of his face exposes thoughts so dense they tug at gravity: strobing and still at one time. Dan takes a step; the rings of Saturn run transient circles around Phil’s head.

“Um,” Dan says. There is nothing more he can find to say and Phil does not look up, and it feels like now is not the time for anything. In fact, when hovering too far away the door to be near to it and too far from the sofa, too, and with the tourmaline scratching and the silence crawling, it does feel like there is no time at all.

Dan speedily steps through Phil’s line of sight to the other side of the sofa, where he settles back into the worn cushion, surveying Phil and wondering what to do. It is silent, still. Eventually, he gives in and drapes the blanket over Phil. Phil’s gaze does move, then, silently watching and oscillating between Dan’s hand and eyes. The look is grim inertia. Dan messily throws the other over himself.

Time is just diurnal at this moment; and it seems to be as fragile and treacherous as candle light. Neither of them speak and Dan asks himself whether Phil’s breath is responsible for the formication on his arms.

Candlewax is like time, maybe, and it normally pools around them unnoticed, but now time has been extinguished, it has frozen, solidified on their arms and mouths and chests: cold and ethereal.

“What’s wrong?” Softly, not quite making eye contact. Anything can break.

“I fucked up,” Phil replies, eyes algid and rooted on his lap. Dan’s surprise that no more prompting is needed soon wanes as he struggles to follow Phil’s words. “I fucked up and Laura hates me and he hates me and it’s not going to work out, it never will and I have fucked up _so fucking bad_.” The sentence gains in velocity, the last words strained with despair as he buries his head in his hands.

Dan runs through the words again in his head but they don’t make sense, _nothing makes sense_ and he never expected to see Phil curled up on his sofa, his hands hiding his tear-tattered face and his hair falling over his eyes. It’s woe and despair in strata against his thigh and the pattern of the fabric.

“Phil, calm down, you’re not making sense. What happened?”

Taking a shuddering gasp, Phil withdraws his hands and - finally, finally - makes eye contact with Dan. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Start from the beginning, then,” says Dan, words feeling like they are gushing out over marble. “Chronologically.”

“I- you’re not going to judge anything, are you? This won’t change anything?”

A stupid thing constructed from nettles and lego bricks, panic flails in Dan’s chest, but he says, “Of course not,” ignores it.

Phil nods, inhales deeply to steady himself. “Right...I came out as bisexual to my parents a few years back. Mum took it fine. Dad wasn’t so supportive. But I had Laura, so it was okay for him, and we didn’t talk anymore about it. I was happy with Laura, I loved her, so it was okay.” Phil pauses, and his eyes flick up to meet Dan’s again. It poses as an ager for a split second.

Dan gives a nod of encouragement. The information is a bit of a surprise, unexpected, but he’s already pushed past it. It doesn’t actually change anything. Save any breakdowns for later.

“A few days back I broke up with Laura; she said it was okay, but I can’t believe that. She looked so hurt, and I feel so shit for doing it, you know? Things hadn’t been working for a while, for me, and I just ignored it and continued to lead her on. Who does that? She hates me, and for good reason.” Dan rests a hand on Phil’s shoulder, and hates himself for how pathetic a gesture it truly is. “And that’s not even the worst fucking part, because I told Mum and Dad and - he really was not happy. He got angry over the phone, said stuff - horrible things I never thought-...They both hate me and, Dan, I am such a shit person for doing all of this.” Phil’s outburst finishes in a despondent sob that strangles and kicks, he buries his face in his hands again. His hands are balled into clenched fists, which is how Dan’s heart feels: clenched, sick, drained.

Dan’s at a loss of what to do for a moment, just watching with pitiful eyes and his teeth worrying his lip because these things can’t just be fixed, he knows.

_Things hadn’t been working for a while_ , and suddenly Laura’s talk from a week or so ago makes sense.

“Laura knows - knew. She wants what’s best for you. Laura doesn’t hate you, Phil, she wants to support you in all this.”

“How can you know that?”

“How can you know she hates you?”

“She talked to me about it. I wasn’t sure what she was on about, but I get it now. She - yeah, she wants you to know she’s here for you.”

“That’s not fair on her. I can’t go forcing my problems on her, I can’t hang out with her, especially if she still cares for me. I’d be leading her on all over again.”

“She doesn’t think that.”

Phil shakes his head. “It wouldn’t feel right.” There’s a pause. “And then there’s Dad.”

Dan straightens his spine, voice determined and firm as he says, “You know he’s the asshole here, right? It doesn’t matter who you love.”

“I don’t know. He just wants what’s best for me, and I’ve let him down.”

“You have not let anyone down,” Dan’s voice raises, adamant and fierce. “There is nothing wrong with you, you know that?”

“I know, and I am pissed at him, I really am, but it can still make me feel like shit. Sometimes it does feel like something’s wrong with me, even though the logical part of me knows there’s not.”

Memories, then, but it’s like he’s peeking through the gaps in corrugated cardboard; they are just snapshots, a twinge of feeling and sense more than actual lengths of time.

Dan slumps and sighs, carding a hand through his hair. “I know,” he utters.

“And - Dan, I’ve lost them both either way.”

“I know.”

“That fucking sucks.”

“I know.”

“And, God, it’s not really those things which are making me feel so shit. It’s how they’ve made me realise what a waste of space I am.” Phil gives a bitter laugh, but it’s so near to a sob that Dan’s teeth dig deeper into his lips. “This is all my fault.”

Dan gives into his instinct and stretches out an arm timidly, welcoming Phil into a hug. Phil obliges after a moment, sliding across the sofa and settling against the cliff face of Dan’s right side; he’s now warm pressed up against Dan’s frame, his whispers resonating in Dan’s chest until it feels chasmic.

“Why do you still put up with me?” he mutters, the words slightly deadened by the fabric of Dan’s shirt.

Phil smells faintly of vanilla, a comforting aroma, and, God, Dan does so want to bury his face in Phil’s shoulder. Woven into it is also the slightest scent of almonds. (Dan’s trying not to think about how almonds are the smell of cyanide and he’s definitely not thinking about the poison which accumulates in his fingers.

He’s just trying not to think.)

“You’re not a waste of space,” Dan says in answer. He bites back anything further: Phil won’t believe it, and there is the possibility that he may give too much away. Too Much. It seems that this is what they come down to for him: hesitations and secrets in plain sight.

They just exist together for a moment, their bodies and thoughts loosely twined together. Breathing uncalculated, thoughts abstracted, rough, fraying knots. That should terrify him, existing. They are neutron stars and black holes next to each other in time and space. Dan knows that if they were to collide, they might destroy each other. That should terrify him, too.

(It doesn’t; he continues.)

Dan’s fingers have grown accustomed to the ache caused by a long to touch, and he’s learnt to ignore it; the roiling bolide in the pit of his stomach because _fuck i want to feel close to you_ is now a background feeling, painfully sweet and capricious. But this time he succumbs to the dull pain in his fingers, as if the darkness hinders feeling and touch as well as eyesight. As if the lack will take away embarrassment, as if Phil won’t mind him doing it. His hand travels from the sofa to Phil’s arm, caressing absently before moving again and playing gently with Phil’s hair. It’s for comfort. That’s what he tells himself as his fingers knot and unknot in Phil’s jacket, as his heart does the same. Dan knows that if this were ten hours earlier or later, they wouldn’t be doing any of this, nor saying any of this - but that’s probably why he continues. It’s what he lives for, after all; vespertine and early matutinal happenings.

Phil does not mind.

(They are not vespertine, nor are they diurnal: they are perpetual and they are demassified into slots of time and that is when the feelings come out to play.)

“What am I, then? Go on.”

Maybe Dan’s coffee from earlier was caffeinated not decaf, maybe it was spiked - spiked with vodka, spiked with reverie and insanity.

“You’re like…” He thinks for a second. “You’re sunshine on a winter’s afternoon.”

It’s corny and whimsical and it shouldn’t make sense, but it does. It fits with their status quo: anything important they’ve ever discussed has been delivered from slips of the tongue and metaphor.

Dan’s fingers tingle as they brush over Phil’s lower jaw. He reckons he can feel the curve of Phil’s lips as he smiles.

“I like that,” Phil whispers, sounds like hush of tides.

“Like what?” Dan asks quietly. The “t” and “k” stick on his lips and he conjectures if he knows the answer or not, if he knows about any of this. Throws it up in the air and watches it fall.

“I like sunshine on a winter’s afternoon.” It’s still dreamy, almost sleepy. Comatose.

“So why don’t you like yourself?” It’s silken when said, but it bares harsh fangs that squabble and dig at something like it’s flesh. He is asking why Phil likes sunshine but not himself and it only really sounds plausible in his head. _Stupid stupid stupid._

Phil just shrugs.

There are answers going through both their heads, though. It is dance - or, more, martial arts, with spinning and spears and fighting, because it is human nature to be self-deprecating, to assign oneself to the status of empty shells, to be a waste of space even to yourself; whereas Dan thinks Phil’s fantastic and like something naturally beautiful and it is all words, words words words. It’s _i think_ versus _he thinks._

Dan persists all the same.

“You know, the sun wouldn’t be pretty if there weren’t eyes to see it,” and he means _you’re not a waste of space, you’re needed and you are so_ so _pretty._

He’s intoxicated with jaded delirium; his mouth works before his brain does, and he inwardly regrets everything he says, knows he will continue to do so. It’s too fucking poetical for him. But he won’t stop: unstopped by his fatigue, spurred on by his want to prove a point.

Phil shrugs again. Dan’s fingers twist and untwist in Phil’s jacket - Phil’s jacket that is really Dan’s jacket - Phil’s head now rested on his lap, and he listens to both their breathing. They’re having a conversation with gestures and allegories pointing towards something porcelain, something else, something _more_.

“The sun doesn’t care if someone supports it or not, it just exists.”

“The sun doesn’t think.” Whimsical has been replaced by steel.

“Perhaps,” Dan acquiesces, “but the sun doesn’t need anyone’s approval for its existence not to be deemed a waste. It just exists. Why does your having a conscious mind mean you are only valid if someone says so?”

“We are defined by belief and thought. That’s where me and the sun differ.”

“You’re both made of the universe, and maybe that’s where you are the same.”

Phil’s fingers curl around the fingers of Dan’s hand for a moment, and looks - seems to smile - in gorgeous disarray up at him. Dan exhales, and with it comes a solace that he happily seizes. Unfurls it and winds it around them both without thinking first. The words aren’t forming easily but it is worth it for this, he thinks.

He cannot stop thinking about cosmos and stardust and sunlight and how pretty Phil looks doused in them. That’s also where the two are consanguine, but he doesn’t say so.

Dan’s blanket has long since fallen to the floor, and as Phil repositions himself on Dan’s lap, his own falls, too. Phil’s head rests farther down Dan’s stomach, and Dan wonders if Phil can feel the rise and fall of his chest. The magnets in Dan’s chest are tugging again, and perhaps Phil can sense the keens of adoration amongst Dan’s deep breaths. If he can, he doesn’t say so.

They are content in silence, two hearts beating along to a principle. Listless, also, body parts and organs hanging heavy around and under each other. The omnipresent tranquility and proximity - dare he say intimacy - hangs tightly around them, coils between Dan’s fingers and in the ridges of lips like caramelized sugar or...tar. The logistics of it all, how they both fit onto the couch and how they are able to be in such a position, is unknown, but Dan is happy to leave the questions unsolved.

Phil’s shirt wrinkles and creases underneath his shoulders. His collarbones are sharp knives under skin, collapsing in towards the middle of his chest. Dan likes to think that if he tugs hard enough at the epiphysis, the bones will rip apart to reveal what’s inside. He speculates: it might take the form of a cloud of white doves, like happiness and hope, their wings an erratic heartbeat. Perhaps there might be nothing at all.

(He wants to know if the knives will shatter when bruised with indigos and crimsons.)

“Why are you telling me all this, when you think so low of yourself?” Phil asks, twisting up to face Dan. His eyes are ablaze the way sulphur burns. They’re waxing and waning in the low light, swirling and melting as they burn into Dan’s gaze.

He wants to say it’s because Phil means so much to him. He wants to say it’s because for him, it’s not about what others think of him, it’s him himself that is disapproving, lacking in matter that makes him a _“good person”_. This does not apply to him. The whole idea is kind of confusing and muddled, and he would prefer it if Phil hadn’t asked, had left Dan unchallenged so he could continue to show comfort and pretend and make dandelion wishes for them both.

“Because it’s easier to tell someone else why they’re brilliant than it is to believe it about yourself, isn’t it?” he answers. Phil hums, and it verges on agreement.

None of what he has said has occurred to him heretofore, and in a way it provides solace; but at the same time, it in no way is a panacea. He doesn’t need to believe it the same way Phil does. But.

“But…” Dan starts again, stops. “I don’t know.” Because he doesn’t, there’s no real reason for him to do this, and the doubt that springs on him should be refreshing - because it is. It feels like he can allow himself a beginning. “You do know this isn’t all your fault, don’t you? And, if people’s opinions do matter, then I value you a lot, so your existence is important.” He thinks a _love_ may have been intended in there.

Phil cracks a half smile. Returns, “I value you, too,” and doesn’t mean it the same way, he’s sure.

There are still tears beaded around the under-circles of Phil’s eyes, glass on blotched purple, and more hide still. It makes them shine a little. His face is pale, his skin is pale, everything is pale and washed out.

Phil’s eyes become aware and attentive for a split second, and he holds Dan’s gaze. His mouth opens and shuts.

“As touching as this is, this position is not comfortable,” Phil announces. Dan is quick to laugh as Phil lifts himself off Dan’s thighs, tucking back into Dan’s chest and shutting his eyes. Dan rests his cheek on Phil’s head automatically.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dan says, drowsy, “Do you know it’s not your fault?”

There’s a hesitation. “I’ll get there.”

Dan finds that a reason to smile.

There are still issues to sort out. They can wait until later; they need to sleep, and that is easy enough to do now, with early morning and warmth in loved-one form as a soporific pounding his system. Despite the rawness and hurt and everything else, he allows himself to think it.

They’re going to be okay.

-

_you plant words in my mouth and you make me want to scream until the sound consumes me._

_you give me a voice. and i would go to the end of the world for you._

-

When he awakens, his arm is numb and his skin cold, body groggy and disgruntled. Callous flares slice his vision into twos and threes and sixes, eroded at the centre edges: sleep that still rests after the slumber has been washed away. But when Phil opens his eyes and smiles a dream his way, Dan thinks this could be what it is like to be on the receiving end of a celestial nuclear explosion - and survive.

-

“This is a good thing, isn’t it?” Chris ponders, shifting to rest on his other elbow. “I mean, we won’t have that dramatic scene I told you about - shame, I know - but at least it’s ethical now. Our options have totally transformed.”

Dan has always admired the way Chris can remove any sincerity something may have in a heartbeat.

“Seriously, dude, what the fuck?”

They’re in Dan’s room, Dan sat on the floor, limbs becoming cramped and numb, and with his eyes on the screen in front of him, while Chris has opted to sit cross-legged on the bed above him, exclaiming and yelling suggestions whenever the moment is right. Dan’s not quite sure _when_ the moment is right, but every time it has happened he’s jumped out of his skin, so perhaps that means something.

The animated sounds splatter beneath the rainfall. Pebble-drop after pebble-drop of noise. _You’re stuck with me now,_ Chris said as the first droplets splashed onto the window pane. Dan may not be entirely sure why Chris has come to be here, but neither of them have a car and Chris arrived without a coat - that much Dan does know - so this much is certain: Chris is staying until the weather relents. That could be at two AM or in the morning, but Chris knows his way to the college from here, so it’ll be fine. Dan’s trying not to worry about it.

“He hasn’t got a girlfriend, Dan.”

“And?”

“And,” repeats Chris, “it means you can swoop in. No fights, no tears, no disputes of morals,” Chris counts them off on his fingers. “Simple.”

“We’re not talking about this again.”

_So what better way to pass the time,_ Dan had thought to himself, _than unravel the events of the previous week._ Heretofore, he relayed some brief details of his and Phil’s midnight rendezvous, but only because his mouth seemed to agree on it before his brain had. And the circumstances had probably coaxed him into it, like a sort of Stockholm Syndrome thing. He hadn’t wanted _this_ , not again.

Chris can give sound advice - eventually. He’s posed as a good listener in the past, and here’s hoping the past rings true now, so that Dan can at least try and sort out the mess in his head. So far, it hasn’t.

“Yes, we are.”

Dan pauses the video game. He doesn’t want to discuss the ins and outs of his life while concentrating on blowing people’s brains out, thank you very much. Huffs a disgruntled sigh out between his fixed lips.

“Do you think I’m some kind of arsehole?” Dan scolds over his shoulder, barbed but weak. “I’m his friend first. He just lost an important person in his life; I’m not exactly going to celebrate.” His voice dips into a harsh whisper at the end.

“You’re right. But would you, in a few weeks?”

“Do what?”

“Dan.”

“We don’t know what might have happened by then,” Dan replies, steering away from the question and his response.

Chris considers him, steely, for a second, “You’re really caught up about this, then?”

Dan lets out a sigh from the back of his throat. To relieve his neck, he twists around to face Chris and hugs his knees to his chest. “I don’t know, Chris. He’s still my friend. Isn’t it wrong to be happy about any of this shit?”

Chris just shrugs his shoulders and remains silent, knowing the question is rhetoric.

“He needs space and time to recover; he needs someone to be there for him without wanting more. What he doesn’t need is me trying to get him into another relationship.”

“But if he likes you, too-” _likes_ , Jesus, it’s like primary school, chubby hands and crayons and ink, “then you wouldn’t be forcing him: it would be his choice, too - well, not choice, because you can’t really help it. But. You know.”

(With the way Dan’s hands stutter and stumble, it may as well be first school; the crayons are the taste and feel in his mouth and the ink is filling his blood.)

Dan’s jaw visibly sets, and the rocking he was doing previously pauses.

“He really cares about you, you know,” Chris says, gaze as soft as his tone of voice.

At a push, Dan can see that. Or, more, at a push, Dan can accept that and understand it. But that is all it is. What Chris is saying is true, but nothing has changed as far as their relationship is concerned. Phil still sends him texts and calls him, sometimes, and he smiles when he sees Dan and he shares books and poetry and jokes. There’s been no encroaching of personal space or whatever else _head over fucking heels in love with you_ equates to; they are as they’ve always been: friends with parted trajectories that buckle under pressure. Any chance that things might change are no more. In some ways, Dan is tired of thinking about it. It’s tiring and pointless and faltering, _tiring tiring tiring, for ever amen_ and it may be bitterly so, but he is content with leaving things as they are. That moral about _starts with a break up, ends with a break up_ remains, either way.

Dan shakes his head, “I should be happy with this. I am. It’s better than nothing,” he passes it off.

Chris furrows his brow. “You’re being heroic.”

“I’m fine with it, really. It’s not what I want.” Just a small lie, tastes of shattered boiled sweets on his tongue. It could be true.

“What if it’s what he wants?” Chris tries, again and again, and Dan shoves it off and away with a shake of his head.

“He met me with the mindset that all we could be is friends, and that’s what he will always think of me as.” And that, at least, makes sense. When they met, Phil would be viewing everyone as peers, acquaintances and friends, and there is no reason why Dan would be an exception. Now that the barrier is gone, if he meets someone new, it could be possible. Dan thinks of this and stitches a rueful smile, “We just met at the wrong time.”

Dan is half expecting Chris to say something more, to question his verdict, to say that the one on the receiving end of affection is always more cynical.

Chris kneels down beside him in lieu of all that, enveloping him in an embrace.

“Aw, my little Dan,” he cooes, stroking the back of Dan’s head. Dan laughs, has to crane his neck to reach it over Chris’ rounded shoulder.

“Let me out,” he pleads, weak with the beginnings of laughter and a sudden fatigue, and Chris squeezes tighter.

“It’ll be okay,” Chris continues, an air of sincerity in his voice.

“We give too many fucks. We need to grow up.” Dan relaxes, placing a hand on Chris’ back and cursing himself. He wants to forget this conversation - forget everything, even, clean slate and chalk in his nails. That would be good.

“We all need a taste of our roots sometimes,” Chris says, “Our roots being teen magazines, but whatever. You’re dealing with it much better than that, anyway.”

Out loud, that much may be true. It’s the kind of verbal bravery everyone needs to hear, including himself; it speaks of overcoming, and being the better person. Anthracite intentions, pure and durable. Now all he has to do is believe it. Believe that he’s happy like this.

Which is where he fails. The words leave vestigial hope clattering about what feel like ruptured lungs, doubt and detriment sticking to the roof of his mouth. Hearing all of it aloud is dotting the “i”s and crossing the “t”s, confirming what used to be _this can wait for later_. But there’s something else digging away: it’s the situation itself, not just Dan’s decision, which fractures his faith. At least when Phil was with Laura, there was a reason why it wasn’t happening, and perhaps the sheer unattainability was what kept him going. Now, there has been no change, no nothing, and no reason for it all. He has to face up to it and let go.

It leaves everything deflated and scrambling for hurried heartbeats and sloppy smiles.

Maybe, though, he could pretend to forget that he came to this conclusion at all. Option three: pining, pathetic being, pining.

Dan doesn’t say any of this aloud, of course. To iterate it all without stumbling or giving up altogether would be a miracle. He doesn’t wish to be a myrmidon to his introspecting. Instead, he just holds Chris closer, heels of his feet pressing into the carpet and teeth clamping crevices into his cheeks.

“It’s all a bit pathetic, actually,” he half-spits.

His mind is jumbling together in broken arpeggios and ripped scales. Dan doesn’t know what he thinks anymore.

“Nah. Well, I don’t know. You can’t help if you love someone.” That’s the first time love has been brought into the equation at all, striked through with picket-white and silver, and the rays of light bore into his vision, fractured through eye lashes. Dan blinks hard.

“‘M not,” says he, and they both know the reply does not fit what was spoken.

Chris untangles himself, pulls away and stands with a soft grunt. “Right then. Let’s kick some zombie butt.” The mattress buckles as he collapses onto it, and Dan allows himself a smile as he nestles back against the bed posts.

-

The rain calms a couple of hours later. The road is littered with congregating puddles and drenched stone, the air sprayed with metallic static. Dan senses twilight in his vision as he steps out onto the pavement with Chris.

“Thanks for rescuing me. Not many people take in a drowned rat,” Chris says, leaning against the gate.

“You’re more like a stray dog; smelly, but good for making me feel special,” Dan teases, oddly light on the weighted atmosphere. And it is not just encumbering him: it seems heavy everywhere, tugged on and pulled-at-corners; a tenacity so steadfast that the pockmarks in the paving stones and the mangled clouds above equate to the white of his knuckles.

“You’re not funny.”

Chris pulls him into an embrace, lingering and edging around more words. _Indictum sit_.

“I know,” Dan says as he unhooks his arms, and he pulls off leaves from the adjacent hedgerow to occupy his hands. The foliage retreats with a spring, water shooting to the ground in icy bullets.

“Do something fun,” Chris says, too close to pleading and too close to Dan’s own brain because of it.

Dan raises his eyebrows. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Order a pizza. Watch a film. Visit the library.” He makes a point of looking at Dan, who averts his gaze. Chris speaks again, casual to break the moment. “Go wild! You just deserve to do something, mate.”

“You’re probably right,” Dan concedes.

“I am, aren’t I?” Chris grins. “See you, then.”

Dan raises two fingers to his head in mock salute, waiting for Chris to turn his back before doing the same and slipping back inside.

-

_from: chris_

_to: dan_

_00:06_

_have you thought about why he broke up with her?_

Dan switches his phone off and tunes in to fatigue.

-

A day later, and decisions have spun in his mind as frequently as oscillating seconds, muddled and insistent.

_dan: just don’t think too hard about it_

That’s what he’s doing, anyway.

-

The Monday after. Dan sets off for the library, an unpredicted optimism in his gait. It’s only slight, with effulgent bursts which spike his mood, but it’s there and it ameliorates his drooping head. The surroundings are finely tuned, brighter; he’s noticing colour more. He feels a bit less empty, is what it is: he’s willing to try.

A song has wriggled its way into his head, and he hums and echoes disjointed limbs of it as he traipses along. He can’t remember the words or if it is minor or major, so the naturals and flats drift between the two. He finds it doesn’t really matter.

Quite often, a song is playing in his head. The fact that this one seems upbeat could either be a sign or wishful thinking.

The concrete jigsaws of the street mean he can’t focus on how golden beams reach the leaves, and the sun is still behind falling rooftops and pasty cloud. Dan traces over pastel chalks and optimistic, spring colours in lieu of doing nothing, drumming beats with his worn soles and pretending he can see past the scattered blue of the sky if he squints hard enough. He tries on the crown of Cassiopeia off-kilter and it slips sideways, dim in the light; holds the asterism of Ursa Major as if it is a spear; swims through the scintillating depths of Andromeda and any other galaxy in the expanse of his metaphorical ken. He could go wandering aimlessly, pinning maps and highlighted words together, but he has a destination to focus on, he reminds himself.

Halfway between the library and thoughts scrambling for answers, he comes across Louise.

Walking the opposite direction to Dan, she has one arm hooked around a small bundle of papers and books, the other burdened by shopping bags. The plastic handles seem to depress into her skin and there’s a rattle as she walks, but a grin adorns her lips. Her coat is such a shockingly bright shade of yellow that the warming spring cannot combat it yet. The greys and browns resile to the shadows when Dan looks past her and towards them - and yet it makes him smile, so he can’t hold anything against her.

“Hi, Louise,” he says first. The greeting comes out cheerfully, stretching the metre or so across the pavement. Her gaze alights from the cracks in the stone and curls up to meet him, a shake of her blonde hair facilitating her action. Constructed from old lipgloss and early-morning weariness, her smile spreads to her rosied cheeks.

“Hi!” she returns. She shifts the weight of her loads around and rearranges the way her arms hold her paper work. Dan automatically holds out a hand to assist her, but she shakes her head, “So, how’ve you been?”

“What, since Friday?” he says, because it has only been a couple of days since they last saw each other. Granted, last time they talked, Louise was covered in flour and asking how much use of the flour dredger is too much, but still, the fact remains.

“A lot can happen in a few days,” she points out, almost cryptic, and Dan bites back a cynical retort. She is right, he comes to realise, but he doesn’t say as such. (One conversation does not count anyway: nothing has _changed_.)

Proof that Louise is correct, the past week has been more than _a lot._ Tuesday, the post-midnight happening; Thursday, Chris’ ambush; Friday, Louise. Of course, only one of those really means anything, and it is clear which.

“I’ve got half of a Lord of the Rings marathon waiting for me,” he offers. He’s done as Chris suggested: _“gone wild”_ in the form of filmography. The marathon began late on Sunday, and he was considering not leaving the house until recently, but he got there. And now he’s going to visit the library without fretting over the sharp ins and outs of relationships. “Nothing interesting.”

“Fighting Mordor - or whatever it is,” she adds before Dan can cut in, quirks an eyebrow and a lip while doing so, “is more exciting than anything I’ve done. I’ve just popped out to get some food and I’ve got a lecture later.”

Dan widens his eyes, says, “You’re _really_ living life.”

“I know, right?” Louise plays with the plastic handle around her wrist and sighs despondently in jest.

“Well, I hope you have fun with that,” Dan says with a short laugh.

“I’ll try my best,” Louise agrees, “like I always do.”

“Like you always do,” Dan repeats, steps out of the path of a passerby with a convinced expression.

Louise’s expression then turns shrewd, eyes boring and smile faltering as the mood intermittently changes. “And you? You’re okay?”

Amongst grins and tentative vowels, she’s been asking that a lot, recently - whether by voice or message. It is gentle and caring and almost agitating for it is so ceaseless, and it poses as an umbrella term for everything, really. Dan often replies with a half-convinced nod or a rough gesture with his hands and an unsure noise: he knows the answer as much as she does, it’s become clear. But it’s okay: they get by.

That is what it is all about: getting by, one day after one day. There is a checklist and it reads _get up, eat, smile, make human contact, speak once just to hear your own voice, breathe: you can hear it yes you are here you are alive, sleep_ in spider-scrawls and it is non-existent - physically, at the least - yet it sums up everything.

“I’ll be okay.” New on cracked lips, it dips and quietens. And - it’s near enough to a confirmation that they leave it, Dan hoping it proves to be true. (He hasn’t wanted to lie in bed until his blood runs cold, which is a good sign.)

_Get up, eat, smile-_

“That’s great. It was great seeing you, also, but I’d better be going.”

“Of course.” Dan pulls her into a side embrace because she can’t, inhaling perfume and hairspray before pulling away.

“See you.”

“See you.” He lifts a hand in a wave. She nods and smiles, and they then continue on their way.


	8. chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shakespeare + baking

The library is stripped of Christmas decorations and people. The weather outside is inclement. The open space suffers from the breeze that the opened doors kick around; crooning through the sporadic quiet, coaxing out whispers of Orwell and Hemingway and whatever else is stocked, murmurs that gloss over his vision with hectographs. The meandering sound of his footsteps on the carpet is too salient. Finding and claiming a comfortable spot between branches of books and old posters is easy due to the emptiness of it all, a shelf of aureate light splintering over the beanbags.

Phil having not shown up, Dan searches the shelves for an enticing title, blinking and catching his nails against the bottom of his palms to bring himself out of absence. Now that he has arrived, he’s starting to be consumed by hesitance and doubt, thoughts leading astray from his current location. Why now, he does not know. Nothing is going to happen, he tells himself, and rests his fingertips on the spine of a book for purchase; he does not - should not - need a reminder of reality, but finds one anyway.

His overwrought fingers have managed to stumble onto a good title despite his cursory searching: Shakespeare, a set of three to cover the entire collection. Each is navy with florid gold text and outlines, its pages, bordering on vellum, suppressed between two hard covers. After a little dispute, Dan claws out one, flicks to the sonnets as he collapses onto the cushions - he doesn’t want to commit to a whole play.

Dan kicks at another beanbag to draw it closer, resting his feet on top and settling into the fabric. Curling over the book rested in his lap, his hands restraining each side of loose pages. The sunlight hits the words and his logy eyes pick apart the shadowed ink and dusty gold like it is sinewed carrion - tough; when metal spikes slice through flesh and bone he changes position.

It’s been awhile since Dan has read Shakespeare, but he returns to it with growing valor. The meaning conveys well enough, but buried under it all are the arguments society now considers. It is unknown if these were all intended by the playwright. Caliban was either victim or villain; Macbeth was fully to blame for his sins or he wasn’t. If Shakespeare were alive, he would be four hundred and fifty one years old and a person Dan would like to have an enlightening conversation with.

“Hey.”

Dan looks up from the pages, closing the book and slipping a finger in to mark the place. Phil flashes him a radiant smile as he drops down beside Dan. One ankle over the other, he stretches his legs out, looks peaceful with clear-cut edges.

“Hi,” Dan replies, awkwardness nudging at the corner of his smile. He sits up slightly to meet Phil’s eyes more easily.

“How are you doing?” Phil says, well meant as his fingers pick at a seam.

“I’m alright.” Things Dan doesn’t add: _you’re making me nervous and I don’t know why it’s happening now._ Things Dan doesn’t allow himself to think: _and I’m kind of addicted_. “How’s service going?”

“I wouldn’t call it service, exactly,” Phil replies, a laugh slipping through. A strand of hair falls in front of his face. “But it’s been pretty quiet.”

Dan curls his fingers into a fist, looks from Phil to a bookshelf to the side of him.

“It’s a reward,” he says.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” There is an answer and Dan laughs at how pathetic he has become.

He watches the way the gnarled branches of trees play twirling shadows over the titles beyond Phil’s jaw, brush strokes of dark over woven, fading hues. He likes the way the lilacs and navies look as they start to deteriorate.

“I needed to ask you something, actually,” Phil declares, and Dan tears his gaze away from the shadow show. He’s about to overcome the drop in conversation and reply when a sound comes from the entrance to the cubby hole, an “excuse me” said with youth and politeness that makes their heads turn. Standing between the shelves, with her hands clasped and head dipping to the floor, is a milquetoast of no more than six years of age; wisps of dirty-brown hair twirl over her ears and around her rounded cheeks, two more plaits caught over her shoulders. Vulnerability stands in her eyes and freckles.

“Hello,” says Phil with an air of surprise. “How can I help you?” He stands and Dan contemplates doing so, also, but decides two men looming over someone teetering on the four foot mark would be intimidating, so stays seated, and smiles. Phil walks to her, crouches beside her and grins encouragingly, one set of fingers splayed across the floor for balance. The arrangement of the library means the entrance is filled by the pair of them.

“I can’t find my mummy,” she says - timid, words just skimming the top of her tongue, but she stands her ground, keeps her head up. Phil looks to think for a second.

“I’m sure we can help you in no time. Now, what’s your name?” he asks gently.

“Steph.”

“Hi, Steph. I’m Phil, and this is Dan.”

“Hi.” Dan takes the cue.

“And we’re going to make you un-lost. Does that sound like a plan?”

Steph nods, eyes turned hopeful. Shoulders curving down again, her hands have relocated from her front to lie on top of the seams that run down the side of her trousers.

“That’s the spirit. Right then,” Phil stands, speaking with determination, “I’m going to go and find someone who can help you more than I can, and you’ll stay with Dan, if that’s okay?” Phil looks back, and Dan gets the impression the question is more aimed at him - not that he has much of a choice now - and he conveys his answer in the form of a subtle nod. Maybe he’s not the most suitable to look after a stranger’s child, but he doesn’t mind, and it cannot be helped. Not really.

Steph nods again, skittering down the carpet as Phil departs with an offhand wave.

“Hi, Dan.”

“Hi, Steph.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“Okay.”

Sinking into a bean bag to the right of him, her feet kick off the ground. Her eyes skip from shelf to crevice to shelf, sweeping over Dan’s infrequent up-flicks of a gaze; her body drawn in, tucked in to herself. It must be nervous energy, but Dan can’t think of anything to help - remains quiet.

“What are you reading?” she enquires, and for a second Dan is surprised that anything is said at all, looks up, catches her eye, and she stares back. Dan’s eyes next find the book still clasped between his two palms, and runs a finger down the cover as he answers.

“It’s Shakespeare’s Sonnets.”

“Sonnets?” She inclines her head.

“They’re like poems.”

“Oh, poems. We’re doing those in school.”

“Yeah? Do you like them?”

“I like reading them, but mine aren’t very good,” she tells him, scrunching up her nose.

Dan hums in agreement, says, “It’s not for everyone, your talents lie elsewhere, I’m sure,” and stops himself from continuing. Then, “Do you want me to read some?”

“Okay,” she supposes, Dan hesitating before patting the space beside him.

“D’you want to sit here? So you can see, I mean.” He stutters a laugh.

“Okay,” she says again.

“Cool.” Dan makes himself more open and helps Steph manoeuvre herself onto the ever-moving space beside him, her delicate frame leaning onto his, legs dangling onto the floor. He wraps an arm around her to steady them both, holding the book out in front.

“Are you good?”

“Yes,” she says, keenness hissing in the consonant, and Dan laughs, flicks through the pages.

“Then I’ll begin,” he regales, because if he didn’t enjoy saying that he’s probably lying; Steph appreciates it, too, giggles tumbling from her mouth, high pitched and bubbling.

“ _As an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put beside his part,_ ” Dan reads slowly and diligently, glancing between the meticulous script and the child at his side. The look on her face is fierce concentration: an effort to comprehend the gained infatuation as best as the mind allows. And infatuation it is, because even without their meaning the words strike at you and dance to a melody; dappling one’s tongue with sonorousness and ingratiating the mind, not unlike the quaking form of a wind chime at dusk. If done correctly, they hold the capability of taking the attention of an audience, even for fleeting seconds, and Dan can see it happening.

He has seen the look before. When boredom struck his sister, or they found themselves caught in the eye of a storm, he would read aloud. And she would insist that she understood, once her brow was no longer furrowed and her eyes unglazed. (There is a line between this and the look that blinks away tears, summoned by caustic words. It is thin.)

Shakespeare, as usual, has got it right, from the way stagefright grapples at one’s words, to the hope tangled in one’s pulse that they will somehow receive the hints delivered uselessly from synonyms like _you should sleep_ and _are you alright_. Uselessly, useless, for they are all dysfunctional in the end. To be able to write it would be a blessing of sorts; to rely on writings or glances is a sugar-spun solution, and one people to cling to. (And, does he cling.)

Having the essence of his mind being read out and vulnerable makes Dan squirm, but the only person who knows that is him.

No clear clarification is presented on whether smiling is suitable or not, but he doesn’t prevent it when edges of it tug marionette strings.

“ _O learn to read what silent love hath writ, to hear with eyes -”_

“I’m back,” Phil interrupts, oblivious and cheerful. Shadows of his eyelashes are physical forms of the name dancing colluding pirouettes in his skull; Dan keeps his gaze fixed to the page, though in his peripheral he can see Phil’s lofty figure.

“ _-belongs to love’s fine wit,_ ” Dan finishes, clears his throat. To look up at Phil again is internal, rushing chills, and smiles falling over and over limbs; and seafoam pitfalls coming together in flames down his neck.

He closes the book with a snap. Steph stays seated almost on his lap, and Dan thinks maybe Phil’s smile grows. Behind Phil is another colleague, a woman in jeans and a baggy sweater, who smiles with her eyes. Phil gestures towards her as he takes another couple of steps.

“This is Kirsty.”

“Hiya, Steph. I’m going to help you find your mummy, yeah?”

Steph nods.

“Great.” She holds a hand out, and Steph slides off her seat, chiming a _thank you_ before taking Kirsty’s proffered hand.

“Lovely to meet you, Steph,” Phil calls after them. Dan and Phil wait until they’ve gone, they stare and blink at each other in silence, before Phil slumps back into the bean bags.

“You wanted to ask something?” Dan says; the itch at his throat leaves and is replaced by a type of regret that worries his bottom lip. The seams of his jeans look particularly interesting just now.

“Oh, right, yeah. Are you free Wednesday?”

“I am in the evening, yeah.”

“That’s fine. We can keep to our vespertine ways.” It is the only reference to those meetings, no matter how slight. “I have some macarons - wait, are they macaroons? - anyway, I wanted to bake some, and thought you could help?”

“Sounds good.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, someone needs to stop you setting fire to your kitchen, and I’ve grown quite a liking for that role.”

“Hey, I’ve never actually done that,” Phil objects, points a finger at Dan. “Well. There was that one time, but that doesn’t count,” he hastens.

“You have arsonistic tendencies, accept it.”

Phil laughs, stands, “I need to go.”

“Don’t run away from this.”

“I have to.”

“Don’t run away.”

“I have work.”

“Excuses, Phil.”

Phil prods the beanbag Dan’s seated on with his foot, “Shut up,” and Dan laughs loudly.

“You’re still running away.”

“I am running away,” Phil admits, with a certain amused demeanour as he holds both hands out and steps back.

“Watch what the great Phil Lester has been reduced to.”

“See you Wednesday.”

“See you Wednesday,” says Dan, who’s craning his neck and craning a grin while worrying he’s creasing the pages, returns to the Shakespeare and leaves soon after.

-

“I’m just gonna go wash my hands,” Dan announces, one habit from childhood which he knows would be wise not to kill. Also - because he doesn’t feel with it, totally, and the hovering around he’s doing is not helping. He’s traced the text of the library receipts that don’t belong to Phil multiple times, _I am half sick of shadows_ and _19/10/14_ posing as a platter for his saccade. He figures that in the time he goes and comes back again, with some staring at himself in the mirror with cold water splashing his palms in between, he should have more of a grasp of things.

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, turn left,” Phil tells him from the floor, elbow deep in wonky piles of tupperware and cupboard doors. Dan stays inert for a moment, tangled and enthralled by nothing.

Phil looks up. “Go on. I’ll still be here when you get back.” It is said as a joke.

Dan escapes his blank and says, “right, yes,” with dazzlement pushing through, before turning on his heel and exiting the kitchen, hand rubbing his neck. _I am half sick of shadows_ prances between his footsteps.

The baking evening is underway, the eclipsing sky calling for amber ambiance and warmth as the wind batters against the grass and houses with winter petals. The air smells of nothing but the strawberry scented candle Phil burned two and a half hours earlier; everything is oddly soft, even Phil’s rummaging, and it is both solace and a hinderance for Dan. Blame the weather, always blame the weather. There’s a scattering of flour on the side of the counter which now has Dan’s fingerprints through it in stripes of empty space, and as Dan leaves the room those same fingertips clip the doorframe. Phil commented once on how he barely cleans properly, just makes his bed and washes the dishes, but the house still remains relatively spotless - though, Dan is sure the possible powder-smudge will bother no one.

Phil pulled out on recipe book and rested it on the table; and he flicked through shining pages with neat hands and careless swipes. The book lies open on the chosen bake.

 _Is this okay?_ he has said. And, _it’s very okay_ Dan has replied, looking at Phil intently.

Dan finds the bathroom easily enough and pushes open the door. The doorknob is fake gold and is not the same as the rest. He cannot find the hanging light switch fast enough, and his first impression is held in the fist of encompassing gloom.

The whole room is tiled, etched with cracks and the illustration of harvest flowers on every fourth square - save for the carpet, which is a toned down, icy blue. The tiles are white, framed by the blackish grime that no one can get rid of, blemished by tear drops of tap water. From the window, frosted glass grants the access of fragmented lamplight that spews over the bottles; some on their sides, others empty, some with clear labels, others with nothing but a palimpsest of shade left. Something occupies every corner, ledge and edge. The room, much like its counterparts, carries the air of preoccupied messiness: bedlam that has run out of time to do its worst, chaos in a pretty, welcoming way. It is not laziness, exactly, for it is clean enough, but it gives the impression of tidying half-left, abandoned for better things. The contents of one’s mind are tipped over porcelain and left to see what it all does next. Phil’s, Dan now knows, does not rot.

It does smell in here, though. Air freshener and soap and shampoo and long gone bathbombs perch in pockets of space and greet Dan one by one, hand in hand with a background story he can only guess at. Everything here skips hand in hand with unknown tales. As Dan runs his hands under freezing water, he sights a bottle of vanilla shampoo, explaining Phil’s scent. The aromas paint cave paintings on his insides and he feels guilty for remembering that, and the towels smell of washing powder and coca cola, so he finishes and hurries out.

(He didn’t turn the light on, in the end. His reflection was dissimilar to him, ramifications of shadow, but he couldn’t vanish it.)

Phil’s singing skids along the hallway to Dan.

“I think this is everything,” he says upon Dan’s return. He doesn’t look up Dan, instead peering at the cook book. Dust falls around him, lit by buoyant gold. “What do you think?”

Dan gives a cursory glance at the ingredients list, next at the pile of wrinkled bags of flour and sugar and other foods on the counter, before nodding.

“Yup, I’d say so.”

“Great.” Phil straightens, smile shining in his eyes. His look is still vertiginous, like hands resting on Dan’s shoulders or pressed to his forehead, as Dan tries to focus, but he dismisses it with a push of the chair that is not tucked in. “Let’s get started.”

-

The process is fun and controlling of their conversation, loud in places and entertaining their speech with the next step, or Dan telling Phil to stop mixing and _it’s gonna go everywhere, you twat._ They go through too many bowls and Phil momentarily forgets what must be between twenty five and thirty, and the sky bleeds darker and darker like the world has given up. Dan laughs at that and says it aloud, says he doesn’t blame it one bit. Phil slams the oven door in feigned offence. _I’ll have to these to myself, then_. Dan pushes his knuckles further down onto the tabletop and bargains for the macaroons with their friendship, because _oh no you don’t, Phil if I don’t get any of these you lose me, what’s it to be?_ By the end of it, they’ve got twenty roughly circular shapes baking in the oven, most of the flour sprinkled on the surface and more caught in their clothes and hair. The flour is decay under his nails and will remain there for a couple of days, the grease won’t wash away, but for him right now it’s all _whatever_.

“You look like an old man.” He dares to ruffle Phil’s hair and watches the white powder fall out and to the ground. “More than you already do.”

Phil responds by smudging some of the remaining mixture on Dan’s nose, and for a few minutes straight Dan has to lean against the work counter and laugh steadily.

He is done for.

-

“Dan?”

The macaroons are in the oven, and they’ve been waiting for them to cook with idle conversation. The heat from the cooker swells around them, the essence of baked goods crooning from corner to corner. Languorous is the way to describe it, and with his chin cupped in his palm, Dan can feel faint patterns of somnolence lumber around as they accumulate in his head. It is pleasant even if he is drowsy, and it is easy to smile, easy to laugh - shortly and noncommittally, and when he does, he feels it ghost away - easy to not think about anything thoroughly enough.

The way Phil says it sounds like beginning.

Unsure, however, and unsteady: that’s how it sounds.

“Hm?” Dan looks up through eyelids heavier than before.

“Does it matter that I’m bi?” He looks, undeviating, at Dan, yet he is ready to look away at any second. The question feels awkward to him, synthetic, doesn’t fit with them - it is unnecessary. The question, the anguish, it is all as unnecessary as the answer is clear.

Dan didn’t know they would ever talk about it. They’d said nothing then, after all. Dan had come away with a lot that night, like how Phil looks draped in three AM and how belonging can fit into someone’s body heat, and how there are ideas he knows but doesn’t listen to. And still, this hadn’t come up at all. Even if it should have. So, he hadn’t thought they would talk about it, no.

“Of course not. Why would it?”

“I don’t know.”

But they do, is the thing. They know it matters, in different ways - like how it matters to Phil because it is his identity, and how it matters to others for the wrong reasons, like…

Phil stands abruptly. The edges of his lips are epinasties. His look staves off emotion, and the way his countenance holds itself makes it seem like his hands should be shaking - but they are not. Dan makes sure of that as Phil skitters out of the kitchen. The glass of water shimmers like a geode in the kitchen light - Dan and Phil do not. Not now.

These things, these issues, they matter to humans like how the rainfall with its clattering heartbeat matters to columbines and poison ivy; like how the roles of a jackal, flesh ripper and eater of carrion, matter to the utopia that will otherwise reach an overpopulated cataclysm. Dan thinks about this as he does not ask after Phil’s leaving. The door hits the frame and does not shut.

They matter, like how the arbitrary arrangement of colour in a sunrise matters to the traveller whose fire has extinguished itself; like how the roadside lily flower matters both to the motorists and the concrete, placates the guilt. Staring at the empty space, he learns that some matter enough to cradle them to your chest, and yet they chisel and abrade and excoriate you - _excoriate excoriate excoriate_ \- until the back of your thoughts are flooded with it like it is paint. They matter so much that they devour - and, Jesus, some are worth that. And some are not, or, in an ideal world, should not - but they do. They matter because it now seems that to feel worth, one must grant that worth to something else. And, he understands.

So Dan does not question Phil’s leaving, does not show confusion, nor does he voice his realisation of _oh, that’s where you went_ when Phil returns with his laptop and a delicate smile nestled in his eyes, and it is only in passing that he notes how Phil’s eyes are lambent. Slightly, slightly, but it is a slow process.

-

Once they have taken the goods out of the oven and perched them on an asymmetric cooling rack, Phil returns to his seat in front of the laptop and Dan takes up a new roost at the tap, cold water streaming over his burning flesh.

“I’m so sorry,” Phil says again, hand suppressing a laugh.

“You need to get new oven gloves, Phil,” Dan chides instead of _it’s not your fault, it’s fine i’m fine_ \- that’s already been said three times, at least. The rattle of the water hitting the pit of the sink fills the space as Phil presses into his cheek with one hand and uses the other to pick up the offender in question.

“I think Pac-Man has definitely had his time.”

“Pac-Man was always going to let you down,” Dan retorts, he watches as Phil sticks his forefinger through the crusted hole in the navy. His back to the sink so he can talk without craning his neck, his arm is bent at an odd angle, but he’ll live.

“Hey, don’t say that.”

“It’s because you’re an old man, you have a weakness for retro video games.”

“That’s not true,” Phil denies, “and even if it is, the design has nothing to do with the quality of oven gloves.”

“No,” Dan concedes, “that was your doing. Old man.”

When Phil stretches forward and smacks his chest with said oven gloves, Dan laughs and splashes him with the tap water.

-

“It’s quite a small burn.” Phil inspects the blistering skin, and he speaks the truth, Dan admits, but, “It still hurts like fuck, though.”

Phil is supporting Dan’s injured hand with his own - wrapped around Dan’s wrist gently - as the other holds the red-hot flesh to the light. Phil peers closer and Dan pinches his fingers in a pathetic attempt to clip Phil’s nose.

“Stop it.”

“When did you become a first aid expert, anyway?”

“Sometime in the last hundred years, I’m sure,” Phil says distractedly, most certainly a stab at Dan’s teasing a few minutes earlier, and keeps a hold of Dan’s wrist as stands on tiptoe to reach into a cupboard. His hand emerges with a plaster.

“Can I?”

“I can put on a plaster by myself, Phil, but better the _qualified_ one do it, right?”

“Exactly.”

The plaster is donned with light precision; and, as soon as Dan is free, he strides over to the table, picks up the gloves, stamps on the bin pedal and drops them in.

“Are you done?” Phil raises his eyebrows.

“Fuck you,” is said to the bin, then, to Phil, “yes, I am now, thanks.”

-

“Right,” says Phil after a further ten minutes, shutting the lid on _Dead Poets Society_ , “Let’s make that filling.”

And so they do, Phil pouring guessed measurements into the glass bowl and Dan reading off the dirt-specked page - soon enough they are laughing again. The blinds are down and it’s eight PM, and all they can really take in is the aroma of cooked chocolate and the riveting ghost of each other’s presence. It is a recurring game to suppose what proportion of the ingredients are splattered on the table cloth.

“Piping bag,” Dan says next, holding out his hand. Last time he used one of these, the instrument was flimsy and uncontrollable with only one hand, and it had nearly ended in disaster. But now there are two of them.

“Piping bag.” Phil places it in Dan’s proffered palm.

“Yeah, don’t do that.”

Phil laughs and picks up the bowl.

Later, once they’ve safely transferred the mixture from the bowl to the bag without any tremendous spillages, Phil suggests that he should pipe and Dan should start washing up. Dan agrees, and begins to fill up the bowls with water to soak as the water warms up.

There’s a desperate cry of surprise from behind him.

“What th- _Phil_.”

The top of the piping bag has drooped from the weight of the mixture, and there is a growing pool of melted chocolate on the table and splodges of it on Phil’s fingers as he hastens to set it upright without letting more out the nozzle.

“Careful!” he exclaims, saving them from a messy icing catastrophe by catching the top of the bag.

“Oops.”

“Right, give it to me.”

“But I’m better at squeezing than you.”

“...Dude.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“Dan, I’m talking about the icing.”

“Right, you need to stop.”

“What?”

“ _That_. You keep doing it.”

“What are you basing that on?” Dan doesn’t reply. “Exactly. Now, c’mon, this isn’t looking shit at the moment.”

-

Dan doesn’t regret anything by the end of it.

There’s a floury handprint on his chest, butter under his nails, and fatigue in his eyes, but it’s _whatever_. Phil brushes away the print sloppily, both of them giggling and intoxicated with night and sugar; their eyes are glittering, their jaws ache and it feels like their lips may tear. Jaded limbs knock into each other in their frantic dance around the kitchen, and they continue to do so as they hang by their sides while they make for the front door.

“I’ll see you soon,” Phil says, clinging onto the material at the base of Dan’s jumper, his weight hooked onto it through his fingers as if it could hold him steady.

It’s weird, having his weight entrusted with him, even more so when he can barely hold up his own. It’s a step forward - more a stumble, really, because it feels like it’s not done with all of his intent. Either way, it has happened. They are more susceptible to each other this way. To falling.

Dan’s hand subliminally goes to rest on Phil’s bent elbow, but he catches himself as soon as it lands, and he retracts it. His arm moves to and from this point like a kissing gate.

“Go to sleep,” Dan replies. Phil looks back at him, looking without really seeing, and for a moment Dan’s vision is coursing with his gaze. There’s just nothing else to look at.

Phil blinks.

“Right.” He releases Dan’s sweater and tugs it straight, laughing nervously, eyes trained on the ground.

Dan follows Phil’s gaze down before flickering up to Phil’s bowed head again, chews distractedly at his right cheek.

There’s a rush of an inhale and then Dan’s talking without a plan, “Phil -”

“It’s getting late,” Phil cuts him off, voice thick. He scrunches his eyes up once - Dan can see the corners of his eyes wrinkling - in a harsh blink before looking up again. It’s not clear which one of them steps back, but the space between them is bigger and sour, Phil’s smile as bleary as his voice and eyes and Dan doesn’t even know _why-_

Dan considers him as he exhales, slowly, slowly, and says, “I’ll see you soon.” Dan smiles with one corner of his mouth, a line of teeth just showing through, and leaves.

Life like this has always felt a bit like living as a tightrope walker, but now he’s dancing between the streetlamps’ spotlights, the lacerations of shadow, and the first petals of spring. Life as it is, with Phil as a friend, could actually be more than he could ever hope for. There’s a modicum of truth in his words to Chris, and he’s going to try and enjoy it while he can.

-

There’s now a type of vertigo in Dan’s chest. He feels like shades of yellow, and maybe that’s dumb but that’s what he is: dumb, breaking out in toothy grins. It’s not a constant, it’s not a palpable thought. But - whatever it is, it’s effulgent and vivacious and thrilling - dangerous - in the moments it rules.

The notes aren’t for her anymore.


	9. chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dan goes for a walk, and realises a couple of things

The bubbles die down.

Perhaps it’s because life carries on. He still sees Phil and goes to class, he still reads and gets rained on, and, in the end, there’s nothing to show for his elation. He still is happy about it, and he allows that but God, those notes aren’t for her but they’re not for him either.

Bubbles should be able to melt in real life, because that’s how it feels. The sensation under his skin, it feels like they’re sinking in crimson, colubrine strings, dripping over his ribs as he’s caught between two smiles.

He keeps the notes, though. He sticks them up when they fall down and lives off snippets of biro catching in the corner of his eye. The whole thing is just dumb.

-

Dan goes for a walk.

It’s to clear his head: it’s almost clear outside, the warm air supple on his skull - and he needs to get out, just for a moment. This happiness is great but it’s because the hope is living again, resurrected as a posterchild of disappointment. It’s hungering for more, and the lack of this aches and angers so much that he’s unusually heavy-footed on the pavement. Normally he’s mindful and steps between the cracks, but now he’s urgently striding through, his breaths and footsteps increasing into desperation as he heads - well, he’s not sure where he’s going.

On auto pilot, he follows the path his feet take all the time in daylight, and soon enough he is outside campus, stopping before he goes any further. His head feels oddly empty. The background sounds shift between the purr of the bypass and someone’s midnight music as a cloud rolls over the moon. The cracked pavement is dropped into more darkness.

Dan stops and cranes his neck up, gasping up shaky breaths of algid air. Hands in fists, heart retreating from its erratic rhythm.

Knowing no idea of a destination will appear anytime soon, Dan moves from where he’s staring ahead and leans against a wall. His palms are flat against the brick, posing as some unnecessary purchase, and he can feel the texture on his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily and he waits for it to still, the bursts of condensation forming in front of him slowing with it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Dan springs away from the wall, looking around fervently with corkscrew twists of his neck. His heart rate spurs up again. Only when his eyes rest on a silhouette, approaching from the opposite direction to the way he came, does he calm again.

“Rebecca,” he breathes, leaning back again, “Don’t do that, Jesus.”

Their lips lift at his unease as they walk to his side.

“Rebecca will do fine,” they say. “Think about how I felt; I’m walking home past midnight and it looks like some guy is waiting for me.” Their voice is easy, regaling and loud, and it’s odd to be so careless in such silence.

“It’s not what I intended,” Dan defends.

“And I didn’t intend to scare you. Much.”

“How are you?” Dan begins another conversation in the pause that follows their gibe.

“It’s been a while,” they reply, voice finally slipping into its nocturnal role. He can’t determine whether it’s an answer or a change of subject, and doesn’t have time to ask. “How’ve you been?”

It has been a while: two months, just over even, yet it hasn’t amounted to much. Dan can count the amount of notable events on one hand.

“Alright. Just going along with whatever happens, which isn’t much.”

Rebecca nods slowly, expression focused ahead. He can’t see much of them due to the stygian thread woven around them both, but their face is defined by the high points of their countenance and where the light hits their eyes. They appear more sullen than before, eyes dimmer and the black kohl he saw previously almost nonexistent. Rebecca’s skin is bleached by the streetlight, as must his be.

“How are things with…” he trails off. Should he have gone there at all?

The question raises their attention slightly.

“I don’t know.” They say it like it’s a joke. Bemused. “It makes my head hurt to think about it. You?” They twist their head to look at him.

“Same here.” And what happens next is weird, because Rebecca seems to nod without actually doing so, a barely audible noise of agreement humming through lips which twitch upwards. He can only think it’s sympathy. They look forward again.

The street looks different at night. The colloquial chatter of the city is gone, replaced with a mellifluous silence which dangles on the edge of shattering. There are no cars, there are no animals or people, there is no enduring disturbance. Any noise sends sharp shards through its audience. The lights soften the edges of the brickwork, but also act as an ager; the monochrome against the luminosity creates a layer of dust and grey that looks skeletal.

There’s a lull in the conversation and Dan says as such with the intention of filling it. He says that, too. Rebecca laughs violet.

“I only say interesting things when I’m drunk, sorry,” they explain cheerily, “I spend the rest of my time regretting whatever I’ve said.”

“That makes sense,” Dan laughs too.

“So no entertainment today, ‘m afraid.”

“Try.”

“What?”

“Think of one thing you can say while sober.”

They answer after a pensive pause. “You know what I said about it making my head hurt, and you agreed?” Dan nods. “You know what you’ve gotta do? Just don’t think about it. Anything you’re considering doesn’t fucking matter. They’re just emotions.”

-

And emotions don’t condone to rules or logic.

That’s what Dan concludes back in his bedroom, with his hands tucked to his chest against the remnants of the breeze that troubles his fingertips. Though, he can only believe it and let his cares go when he sees him again. When they’re together he laughs, actually laughs, shoulders shaking and hands clasped to his mouth, and he can believe it then. He’s laughing at something which doesn’t make sense, a pleasingly gaudy display held out as proof.

He’s been weighing up advantages and disadvantages of feeling something as if that is how one determines it, as if people can control their emotions. Whatever happens, happens.

-

Dan returns his city wanderings to the daytime and manages not to rely on spontaneous walks through all sorts of weather. If he needs fresh air, he can open a window. It’s not that he has anything against them - he still enjoys them - it’s just that they are not the wisest pass time, and require time and effort that he may later regret using.

The habit likely originates from early childhood, when Dan’s father would take him out for nighttime walks across the playing fields opposite their house. Being young, Dan couldn’t stay out too late, but in winter, darkness was easily reached by six PM. The season added to the atmosphere, with water dousing the grass between their footprints and the beginnings of cold rain weaving through the air underneath streetlamps, streetlamps that steadily dimmed as they walked, without reluctance, away from the street. It was perfect, with their only company being the pavilion reclining in one corner and the trees hiding in the darkness, on the far side of the field. Dan had been told many a time that bats roosted in the gnarled trunks.

He would shine his torch upwards and look to see if he could its flickering beam land amongst the stars. The lambent pillar of light would tower above him, lending to the illusion that it was nestled in the atmosphere, when really it was just the light scattering and fading nowhere near as high up. That was before he knew how time and space worked, of course. He remembers hearing an owl for the first time, the bird of prey hidden in the shadows above their heads, and being so excited. Thinking about it now, he can sort of understand why.

The streets are slick from the early morning rain, the city murmur glazed with signs of the upcoming season. The clouds muddying the sky, on the other hand, suggest that the droplets clinging to the expanse of shop windows will barely have time to slip down to the ground before another onslaught of rain arrives. The daisies standing on tiptoe along the suburban streets quickly vanish as he enters the heart of the city, their grass cages going with them. Lampposts and concrete replace them. Dan recalls someone - it was probably Phil - telling him that _daisy_ translates into ‘day’s eye’ from an old language, and Dan thinks at least someone is awake as he slopes along to a lecture.

His lethargic eyes catch sight of a familiar head of amber hair, caught in the collar of a glossy trench coat. Her flat shoes make definite strides along the pavement, head kept high and forward.

Dan considers his options. Laura hasn’t seen him yet, but she could any second now. She’s coming his way. Dan’s having a hard time deciding if he wants her to see him or not.

And Dan must be a changed man, because instead of edging past and revealing a shy smile if she does happen to spot him, he approaches her.

“Laura? Hi,” he says, demonstrating a certain level of enthusiasm he doesn’t feel to get her attention. It’s awkward; he doesn’t know quite how to address the situation or what to say, and he’s left hovering in the middle of the pavement.

Laura’s forward-facing gaze shatters as she hears him and looks to her side, a smile blossoming.

“Dan, hi!”

Dan waves stiffly, curving his spine to avoid a passerby. Laura steps to the side of the pavement, where the shop fronts are. The street isn’t thin, with people exiting stores without collisions and others walking down the middle of the abandoned roadway, but Dan doesn’t want to be left stranded amongst plastic shopping bags and Marc Jacobs perfume as he talks for what could be any length of time.

“What are you doing out so early?” Laura asks once they’re shoulders are backed up against an old Specsavers advert.

“Why does everyone seem to think I can’t get up before twelve?” Dan complains, and she smiles; then he explains, “Uni lecture,” and Laura’s forehead creases.

“I’m not keeping you, am I?”

“No, no, I have plenty of time. What about you?”

“Just on my way to grab some stuff before work, so I’m in no rush.”

“Cool.”

“How are you, then?”

“Alright, yeah. Tired.”

“That’s good. Not the tired bit, but - yeah. And...Phil? How’s he?” She approaches carefully for her own sake, Dan thinks, worried that she sounds desperate. She doesn’t, but that isn’t the answer she waits for.

He could tell her how it’s still practically the same, or how Phil’s father has snapped, or even how Phil’s got a new jumper in just the right shade of blue and Dan found an old one in his wardrobe the other day - but, no, that’s not it either.

“He seems fine. He’s -” Dan pauses a moment, unsure what’s his place to say. “Some issues came up, but we’re dealing with it.”

Laura nods with a look of attention and knowing.

“Has he not replied to you?” he frowns.

“I haven’t tried contacting him yet, wanted to give him some time to recover in private. Putting salt in old wounds and all that. I probably should soon, though.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got a new job in Canada. Well, it’s more a promotion. The company’s doing a project and they want me to manage it; six months at least, they say.”

“That’s really great, right? That’s a huge opportunity!” Dan exclaims. Despite hardly knowing her, he feels both happy for her and downcast at her leaving. Saying goodbye to a _what was_.

“Yeah. It’s a new start and a change of scene. We all need those, sometimes.” She gives him a rueful smile.

Dan contemplates a second.

“He does want to talk to you, he just thinks it would be unfair on you. He doesn’t know - as in, do you still love him?”

He regrets approaching it so carelessly, words sour on his lips, and he’s not sure if it’s a change of subject or not, but it seems to fit - for all its bitterness - so he goes with it.

“No.” It’s not stated unkindly, but there’s something there: lament. It’s painful to know you didn’t love someone you were supposed to.

“How long?” _How long haven’t you loved him,_ he means, but he can’t bring himself to iterate the rest.

“It was a gradual thing, so gradual we couldn’t tell it was happening. Mutual, also. We were made to fall apart - gracefully, though.”

“That sounds like something he’d say.” Dan can’t stop himself saying it and regrets it as soon as the sentence is out in the brisk air. A dog barks from where it’s tangled in its leash tied to a store front.

“They were, yeah.”

And that must mean something, right, because it turns out that Phil is sometimes eloquent outloud.

She smiles pensively, an offering Dan returns for a second before throwing his gaze to the battered gravel at his feet.

Laura surreptitiously clears her throat.

“It was great seeing you, Dan.” _Ever cheerful,_ Dan thinks.

“And you. Good luck with Canada.”

She beams at him. “Good luck, yeah, we all need that. Good luck to you, too, with everything.”

When she pulls him in for a tender hug, he doesn’t recoil. And as she walks away, there’s a wisp of words which trace _I trust you_ in the air; once more Dan thinks of their kitchen conversation.

Soon enough, her head slips into the sea of others, and Dan is left staring at nothing.

_So that’s that, then,_ Dan thinks as he continues on his way.

The sun dips beneath a cloud and back again; somewhere, a busker is singing about sunshine and rain storms.

-

The hemmed-in space they usually occupy is a literal maze, the shelves which do the hemming empty and their books spluttered out in leaning towers across the floor space. As an estimate, one wouldn’t be able to move more than thirty centimetres any way without knocking into one pile or other; the path available is risky and holds a colubrine shape as it ends up in the centre. At the midst of it all is Phil, fastidiously transporting books up and down and along in what Dan guesses is his tactic for ordering them.

“I leave for five seconds and you just…” Dan finishes with a wide sweep of his hands over the chaos.

“It’s been two days,” Phil says, in a tone too dramatic for Dan to take offense. Can’t help but think that Phil is in the centre of a pentagram, though, and he snorts a laugh that deviates Phil’s acute gaze for a picosecond.

“What?” he asks, hair falling over his face at the movement of his head.

“Nothing.”

“Hmm.” Phil slips a book into place against the few others dwelling at the very end of the shelf, his hands hovering in prayer that they don’t fall. The structure holds, and Phil mutters a “Markus Zusak lives to see another day.” He spares Dan a sideways glance: “Do you wanna help out?”

“Sure,” Dan supposes, dropping his bag to the floor and navigating the labyrinth of pages. “What should I do?”

“Can you clear those please?” Phil nods towards a set of shelves still compact with teenage fiction.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’ll love you forever,” Phil replies, already crouching down and selecting books from every other pile.

_It’s a deal_ , Dan thinks, knowing that, if anything, it’s a bet with himself.

Movement becomes more steady as time goes along, his body moving down and up between the shelf and floor. It poses as a distraction. He’s not exactly sure what from, but Phil’s feeding him first-impression reviews of the novels he picks up _(“Someone leaves in this one, I’m sure.” “How?” “It uses that font.” “What fo- you know what, forget I asked.”)_ , in between discussing avidly about common tropes and how he thinks teen fiction deserves more recognition. The contrast builds.

“See that woman over there?” Phil continues, jabbing his head in the direction of someone who rounds the corner before Dan can see, “she works for America. There’s a Russian spy somewhere.”

“Is it you?”

Phil shoots him a look before swearing as he knocks a tower over - the collision nearly sets three more toppling - and Dan nearly bashes into some himself as he laughs.

-

“Dan, can you pass me that?” Phil asks later on, gesturing to another edge of the area.

“What?” Dan looks up. “I can’t see anything, Phil.”

“It’s there. Behind that box.”

Dan makes to move but stops: he’s trapped. There’s no way in hell he can stop over the piles without sending pages flying - he’s absently built them up past his knee, book spine to book spine. “I’m trapped.”

Phil looks around Dan with a laugh,“Move them, loser.”

“Why don’t _you_ get it?” Dan objects, turning on Phil and eyeing the lack of books around the other.

“I’m busy.” Phil suppresses a grin; Dan sighs.

It takes a minute or so of Dan clumsily shuffling and hopping before he’s cleared the towers, muttering under his breath as he strides to the plastic box Phil had gestured to.

“There’s nothing there, you twat!” Dan hisses, spinning around immediately.

Phil’s indignant front gives into rapturous laughter.

“You’re a dick,” Dan says, slack-jawed.

“So I’ve been told.”

“You’re mean, immature -”

“All endearing qualities of mine.”

Dan snorts, “Yeah, sure they are.”

“Why are you still here, then?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

-

“How’s uni?”

“Ugh,” Dan answers. “Just -” But all he can make are frustrated noises as dread gives his stomach a gimlet twist.

He suddenly feels tired again, close to boiling point. He stops stacking to prevent himself from slamming the cargo into the shelves.

Phil studies him in silence for a moment.

“I want coffee.”

“But we’re not finished,” Dan objects, confused gaze struggling over the uniform chaos. The prospect of finishing is giving him a headache; he’s blinking hard to rid the weight of his eyelids.

“I can finish it later, but right now we need caffeine.”

Phil walks over, picks up Dan’s bag as an incentive, and sashays towards the exit. It leaves Dan with no choice but to follow.

-

“What’s bothering you?”

Phil skips the small talk as he plants two coffee mugs on the table. He’s found them a small, murmuring cafe; rusty air and worn tables, old signs and even parts of a bicycle hung on the walls, complete with a corner table. It’s one of the booth type ones with the cushioned two seater pressed against the wall, and Phil slides onto it next to Dan. There’s just enough oscillating chatter to conceal their words.

Dan raises his eyebrow, daring him to go farther.

“In this moment, right now, what’s bothering you?” Phil compromises, nudging a porcelain coffee cup into Dan’s hands with a look that says _don’t lie, I know you too well._

Dan readies himself with an exhale and a shift in his seat. The saddle above their heads looks like it could fall at any moment.

“I don’t know where I’m heading, you know? All life looks like is boredom or wanting more, and what’s the point in that?” Boredom from settling down, wanting more, then boredom again once one has achieved it, that’s what it all seems to be. He breaks eye contact.

“So it’s like you’ll never achieve anything?” Phil prompts.

“Yeah.” Dan breaks into a small smile because Phil gets it, thank God he does. “There’s always another thing I need and if there’s not, I’m tired and bored, so it feels like hopelessness, right? As soon as I’ve completed one thing I want to do, life’s like ‘oh have this other really important thing’ and it’s the same fucking cycle over and over again. It makes me want to tear my hair out and punch a wall.”

“Well, I’d recommend doing neither of those things.”

“What can I do, though? I’m stuck and I can’t start anything and -” Dan breaks off. He’s rambling and his throat has gone dry.

“Why don’t you?” Phil asks, and Dan doesn’t know how to react to the flicker of concern in his eyes, just knows how to listen to the stress of his heart and how to paint acid across his throat.

“It’s the want thing. Everything is futile because there’s always _fucking more_. I’m tired and -” _I’m scared,_ Dan thinks. Even aiming for something good, trying for a dream, seems daunting. “It’s better being stuck on one side, and safer.”

“What’s the worst that’s gonna happen if you do pursue something?”

“It’s not about whether I manage it or not - well, kind of, but really it’s that no matter how I do, in the end it will mean nothing.”

“You’re going to fail, sometimes, but that’s always gonna happen and you can’t let it put you off.”

“But in the end -”

“It’s not about the end, Dan. When you’re old and grey, you’re gonna look back at the journey and what you did to get to the end, not what happened once you’re there. Um. Without all the effort and things, the achievement would mean nothing. The best part, the bit you’ll likely remember most, is what makes it mean something. Like when you read a book, you read to eventually reach the end but what you’ll think about most is the story itself. It’s like that. I don’t know, I’m not making sense.”

“No, you are.” His brain is untying the knots with shaking fingers but Phil’s slow, precise speed of speech is making it easier.

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” Phil regains his thoughts and continues, “You have a choice on whether you think life is all about ‘the end’ or if it’s about the whole thing. And I think you’re wrong: it’s not all want and boredom, not if you don’t live for that split second where you achieve. If you live for it all, if you know that it’s not a pain to have a new goal, then you don’t have to achieve to be happy, I think. And it makes me sad that people wait for the end because by then your whole life is gone.”

Dan’s limbic system is positively drowning.

(It doesn’t solve everything just like that, but it feels like it could.

It makes sense. If he lives for ‘the end’, he would never be fulfilled, because - as they both said - there is no end. And then he’d miss most of his life. Because, isn’t life about the trying, anyway? And if he doesn’t want to try because he doesn’t see the point in completing a goal, then he’ll be miserable for the rest of time.

Maybe his emotion isn’t cured, but logic can fuel his conscious brain to agree one day.)

Phil’s eyes kept flying to the right top corner of his eye as he talked, and now they rest on his coffee. “I’ve been talking too much. Er,” he gives a nervous laugh, “don’t be scared about the wrong things, basically. Life isn’t a chore.”

“So. Life is like a mountain, is what you’re saying,” Dan teases. Phil’s lips twitch into a smile.

“I guess so.”

“And what do I do once I’ve reached the top?”

“Hop on the nearest cloud and keep climbing.”

They’re both wearing toothy grins, now, wide and shared between the two of them. They’ve deviated from the point, and it doesn’t totally fit the point even if it sounds a little like it does, but. But.

There’s a riant rush expanding in his ears. All his life he’s gathered that striving for a goal is a pain and only worth the end he may not even reach, but now there’s someone telling him the opposite - singing it with the apex of a heart for a mouth, hair pulled in seven different ways over his eyes and head - and he is more than happy to believe it for the brief second he can. All peradventure leaves, swoops off the curve of his shoulders.

Everything is kind of overwhelming - peculiarly so - a cathartic release, with blithesome relief bursting in the pit of his stomach. It’s large, larger than what suits, but Dan’s got a joker smile and someone to carry him when the feeling inevitably escapes, leaving him deflated and raw.

A shaking laugh escapes his lips as Dan finds an excuse to hug Phil. Clutching Phil’s collar, his head buries into Phil’s chest. Phil doesn’t falter, reciprocates tightly, he even twists to open his body up more.

“You’re a fucking cliche writer,” Dan whispers, so as to hide the quiver of his voice.

“That’s me.”

“Thank you,” is said to the fabric of Phil’s t-shirt, seemingly quieter than the thud of a heartbeat in Dan’s skull. He doesn’t know if Phil hears or not.

They embrace like this for a while, arms clasped and crippled anatomy uncaring.

“I guess those countryside cottages were a bit far fetched anyway.” Dan pulls away gradually. There’s a  bit of him that questions why that is what he takes from all this.

“They do exist. When I was younger, my village was full of them; ivy and roses and transom windows, Cotswold stone, and so on. There was one called Witchwood House.”

“They should remember what forest they live in, at least.”

“ _No,_ as in a-broomstick-rider house.”

“Oh,” Dan says, “You know I genuinely thought you meant that, I wasn’t joking.”

“It happens to the best of us. Anyway, point is, they exist. There’s nothing wrong with dreams. Apart from that one I had the other night, that wasn’t good at all.”

Dan stares at him unbelievingly. Phil changes the conversation swiftly with a, “I wouldn’t mind living above a bookshop or something, you know? Or maybe not a bookshop, but one of those nice houses in the city; not the cramped ones, one of those middle sized, pretty houses, maybe with black timber. And potted plants. And climbing flowers.”

“Yeah, oh my God, I’ve always secretly lusted over those.”

“Maybe with lattice or a slanted porch roof.”

Dan nods, “ _Yes_.”

“That’s it. We’ll live in one of those, and the downstairs will just have books everywhere.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

“It will be.”

“Are you joking?” One look at Phil tells him the answer is no; his eyes are bright and eager, and he’s got a dangerously over-promising smile.

“No! This is happening.”

“Can we have a dog?” Dan asks, smiling as he sips his coffee again - now slightly cold, but still pleasant, and he can taste the sugar Phil put in it.

“Yes. Oh my God, yes.”

“Bluebells?”

“Yes. And tulips and sunflowers and dandelions and daisies.”

“Typewriters. And jars of boiled sweets and random crap.”

Dan’s smile is hanging off his face when Phil says, “It’s a deal.”

Each remark feels like a wish on a star, feigned hope passed between them. But Dan can see the point in forgetting reality for a while. Rapport is sinking into his skin like serein, left in traces on Phil’s jumper in the shape of curling fingertips, running down their chins before they catch the coffee drops. Tingling and outlandish and _good._

Eventually the coffee drains away, and the time with it, the wishes hung out to dry in the decaying sunlight. With Phil needing to work and the coffee shop quieter than before, the pair find cause to leave. Phil stacks their cups before they do so, wonky and conventional for the setting. Before they part ways, Phil points out a possible house, its spine woven with a bouquet of corpulent ivy, and several beams of painted wood posing as its shoulder blades. Leant against its other half and basking behind its fenced garden in the palpable sunlight, it makes the dream acute. Dan looks back to Phil and, for a moment, can only look on and smile in amenable silence.

Dandelions, Phil had said; dandelions.

-

A few hours later, the temperature has dropped and the sky has settled into a carbon mess, rags of cloud and atmosphere crumpled together. The air is static, gives the impression of living in a shadow - at least it is a quieted one. Dan’s brain, on the other hand, is nowhere near still. Boisterous anthems of confusion ring and ring. There’s the urge to do something and the need to be someone, just for a while.

So he calls Phil. Because, if he’s honest, that is one way he can solve all of those things.

“Hello?”

Phil always sounds distant when Dan’s on the phone to him, like he’s just been dropped back into reality by the sound of his own voice. Maybe it’s because Phil’s distracted when there’s no physical form to speak to. Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps it’s because, when on the phone, Dan’s left with just an audio, no body to ground his presence. He sounds so far away.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Less confused now. Settled, ready.

“What are you doing?” Momentarily, inexplicably, Dan’s voice wavers.

“Just channel surfing.” Dan can hear the buzz of the TV, now he listens.

“Nothing important?” Dan checks. The head of his bed presses into his shoulder like a rose thorn.

“Nothing important,” Phil repeats. “Why?”

“Can you come over?” Dan asks, his own voice sounding on the desperate end of foreign to him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

He’s greeted with static, a soft inhale, exhale, inhale in the silence, before Phil’s voice breaks the spell.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can. I’m on my way, okay?”

“Okay.”

The line goes dead.

-

“I’m kind of stuck,” Dan elucidates as he opens the door to Phil. The moonlight is hurtling down like rain, falling and collapsing in a heap at their feet. It’s hopeless, kind of, but the pools of silver coalesce and begin to pave the way to something. Phil’s eyes flash in it as he steps through.

“That’s okay.”

“I do want to believe you, and I do, I think. I’m not so worried about pursuing anymore - well, I’m trying not to be,” he digresses, “But I don’t know _what_ to pursue.”

They’re heading slowly up the stairs, following and trampling in each other’s footsteps.

“You know that in the end, this is all down to you?”

Dan keeps quiet.

“You know you’re totally capable?”

Still silence.

“I’m not sure,” Phil ponders, “how much I can help.”

“You’ve done a great job so far. I trust you.” Dan won’t look back. He won’t.

“I trust you, too.”

And Dan does look back, then. Not over his shoulder, as much as he’d like to, but back to when Laura asked him to make sure Phil knows someone is here for him. Phil’s responses may just be the confirmation he needs.

“You know I’m here for you, don’t you? I’ve done a shit job at showing it, but -”

“Yes.”

And that’s how they end up breathing in dusty lamplight, using bed sheets like spider’s webs tangled at their knees and feet and hands and waists. Light splinters the wall, petals of gold on the plaster. Yesterday’s clothes are still hung over the desk chair. The window is open and the air smells of flowers; a thick perfume as spring carries on the new wind. Soft, the breeze doesn’t quite reach them, and the combined body heat has started to make his feet clammy under the covers. It’s a mess; they’re a mess. Ink from the biro Phil picked up off the floor has smudged on the curved side of his hand and over the title ‘ _things dan’s good at_ ’. ( _It’ll help you see what you should do,_ Phil said. Dan doesn’t know what he wants to do or if he should change course and he doubts if he can fill the page, but he’s too tired and Phil’s eyes are too persistent and too close for him to care.) From here Dan can clearly smell Phil’s vanilla shower gel.

A gust of incense rattles the curtains.

“Go,” Phil prompts, pen poised as he waits.

“I don’t know, Phil.”

“Yes, you do.”

“There is literally nothing.”

Dan thinks Phil will roll his eyes. He doesn’t, but the crestfallen look is enough, really.

“Okay. I’ll go first,” he says in solidarity. He scrawls something on the page _: articulate._ Dan raises his eyebrows. “You know it’s true.” Phil’s eyes are washed out, “Your go.”

Dan slumps against the headboard. They have to be thigh to thigh just to stop one of them falling.

“Someone once called ‘ _I love you’_ to Daniel Radcliffe and he said, ‘ _me too, but I think we should see other people_.’”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

The interest disappears as Phil identifies that it is a distraction.

“ _Dan_ ,” he complains.

“ _Phil,_ ” he copies and is promptly smacked with the notepad.

“Focus.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Yes you can. Just describe yourself. Boast. No one’s complaining.”

“I fucking am.”

“ _Dan._ ”

They get there eventually. Dan’s not sure how many are his. Phil makes another list, a _things you don’t like_ , and Dan frowns before Phil says _it should make sense later. Maybe._ By midnight he’s faced with two lists of roughly equal length.

“So looking at this, I should be a recluse who lives in a shed.”

“You’re not doing this right.”

“Phil, have you seen these?” Dan thrusts the pages in Phil’s face.

“Okay, maybe it does if you look at it that way,” Phil amends. “But that’s not the point of this one.” He lifts the second list. “Just because you don’t like them, doesn’t mean you can’t do them. If you avoided all of this, you would be that recluse.”

“I am that recluse.”

Phil glares before continuing. “The more you do them, the easier they become.”

“Right.”

“So just focus on this one. Play your strengths, because you _do_ have them.”

“Right.”

“But anyway, now that’s done.” Phil scrunches up the dislikes list and throws it into a far corner.

“Littering, too?”

“Sorry.”

“No worries.”

Phil nods and hands the first list to Dan. Their voices sound rough in their throats and their hair curls; fingers touch fleetingly.

“You will figure this out. I can’t make the decision for you.”

“I know.”

Dan thinks he is as stuck as before; he can’t think of what he’d like to do, let alone if he should do it. But now he’s got a list of things at least one person thinks are true.

Phil sighs from florid lips. “Forget it. I don’t know why I thought I could help; I can’t talk about the future.”

Dan chews his lip and regards the list in between them. Phil’s handwriting sketches out ‘ _clever’_ and _‘funny’_ and ‘ _kind’_ and the words barely rest on the lines. There’s a faultline of neutrinos between them but the gap might as well be a light year, and Dan wants to fill the space with pink lemonade stains and sweaters and his fingers, needs to reach out and touch just to ground himself in space. He doesn’t.

“No. You helped. You just being here, uh, helped.”

The faultline trembles as Phil traces it with his eyes. Silence folds in around them.

“If you could live forever,” Dan begins, “would you?”

“Forever young?”

Dan nods.

“It depends. Would it just be me who’s immortal?”

Dan frowns. “Does it matter?”

“Of course. To live forever without the people I love would be torture.”

“I see.”

“I’m not greedy. Just one or two of them would suit me just fine.” He bumps the knuckles of one hand against Dan’s knee cap.

_to live without the people i love would be torture._

“Okay, it wouldn’t be just you.”

“Then yes, I would drink from the fountain.”

“Who said anything about a fountain?”

“It’s always a fountain, isn’t it? When is there not a fountain?”

Phil’s got a smile of barbed wire and Dan should have fled ages ago.

“Will our bookshop have a fountain?” It’s only when he tries to whisper that he finds that they’ve been communing in hushed tones for the majority of the conversation.

“Of course. And a swing set for our childhood selves.”

Dan’s biting back an ebullient smile; and they’re talking in _when_ ’s not _if_ ’s.

“And a dog,” Phil finishes.

“And a dog,” Dan confirms.

As he shuffles on the bed, elbows behind him and head cocked, Phil asks, “What about you? You never said.”

Dan squares his jaw. “I don’t know. I think I will, if I don’t have any responsibilities.”

It’s Phil’s time to grin.

“That suits me just fine.”

( _just one or two of them would suit me fine.)_

“It’s a deal.”

The gap between them sits on the edge of centuries.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

The sound of his breathing is too loud in his ears. Phil glances at the digital clock on the table beside him.

“It’s too late for me to go home now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” because it genuinely is, not because Dan wants him to stay close.

“Oh well.” Phil turns over and lies down fully on the mattress.

“Oi, there’s a sofa downstairs.”

“I’m too tired to move.”

“This is _my_ _bed_.” Dan prods at Phil’s shoulder blade, once, twice.

“I’m not stopping you,” Phil mutters, now subdued.

“Oh my fucking God.”

Dan manages to sleep easily, back facing Phil’s, and when he wakes he’s surprised to find neither of them have fallen. At some point Phil has turned over so they’re practically spooning - and it’s possible that Phil’s lazy hand at his waist is the only thing keeping him from tumbling.

Dan twists around to face him, thinks maybe their two curled bodies look like a mangled heart, and settles down to wait.

-

_pábitel: a person fascinated by their own fate, in love with life, searches for beauty in the simplest objects and events, and likes to twist reality around to fit their liking. someone who proves life is worth living._

-

People are not miracles. People others perceive as ‘miracles’ are just people the same as everyone else, are not cure-alls, are not perfect. Love doesn’t transform them into a miracle. They are not created for your gain. It’s damaging to view anyone like that.

Someone does not validate someone else’s worth. They can speak of it and can praise it but they do not confirm it. Confidence is not founded on someone else’s view.

But people can help, and people can tell you the good parts and the bad parts of yourself. They can aid, but in the end it is you who makes the decision.

Dan knows this, more than ever now.

-

_we are each a song that fills the earth and i hope you know that soon enough you will enter into major again._


	10. chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's okay. it's not okay, but it's also okay.

They’re watching a film at Dan’s. All of them: Dan, Phil, Chris, PJ, Rebecca, Louise - it must be an accomplishment to have them all together, even more so when they’ve all managed to fit into Dan’s small bedroom. Chatting happily before The Imitation Game begins, with the comments continuing throughout the film, Dan is glad to see they all get along. One bowl of popcorn between two, they are squashed up around and on Dan’s bed, and it’s content.

He enjoys it, and maybe he cries even though it’s his third time watching it, and and _maybe_ loving someone who never comes back hits a little hard, but no one else has to know. Wiping at his own eyes halfheartedly with two fingers, he looks to his left to see Phil crying, too, eyes swimming and cheeks wet.

“You’re a loser,” Dan utters - a bare ghost of breath that Phil still manages to hear. Phil flips him off, and the brash gesture makes Dan laugh through his tears. There is a swell of conflicting emotions in his chest. Louise hears his laugh and looks over with a cocked eyebrow, and Dan resolutely does not give a fuck.

-

“Don’t you think Phil looks like a younger version of Noel Fielding?” Rebecca says. The film has just finished and Dan’s crouched over the CD player. Rebecca’s slouched over most of the bed, taking advantage of the space Dan’s just vacated.

“I can see it,” Louise agrees.

The disc ejects and Dan spins around to regard Phil, “Oh my God, you’re a child version of Noel Fielding.”

“Am not.”

“You _are_.”

“My jokes are better,” Phil objects.

“Phil, your jokes are so much worse.”

Dan expects an insult back but Phil just grins, settling back into the side of Dan’s bed. Dan returns the CD to the box and hands it to Chris.

“Thanks for lending that.”

“Any time. I should be going now, though.” Sliding the case into his bag, Chris stands.

“Same here,” says PJ, following suit. “We have lectures we need to go to in like, five minutes ago.”

“See you, then,” Dan says and sinks onto the floor beside Louise, knowing Chris and PJ have been here enough times to know where the door is.

“It was great seeing you all.” PJ nods to the group before him and Chris leave the room.

“I’ll go see them off,” Phil announces, apropos of nothing; he uses Dan’s shoulder for support and stands, ignoring Dan’s grumble that he’s not furniture. “Does anyone want coffee?” He looks around at the three of them.

“Yes, please,” Louise answers.

“Whatever there is,” Rebecca adds.

Phil nods pleasantly. “Dan?”

“Oh, no,” he replies, not really thinking.

Phil nods again, smiles, and hurries out of the door, leaving the remaining people in silence.

The whole thing makes Dan realise how stupidly intertwined their lives have become. Phil comes to his house past midnight and sleeps in his bed and offers to make the coffee; Dan stays at Phil’s work, helps him out, and bakes with him in the evening. Okay, it’s fine, he’s fine.

He’s not, and, staring after Phil in stunned reticence, he lands in a pensive stupor.

“Okay, but the part with Christopher at the end,” Rebecca enthuses, “And the soundtrack, oh my God.”

“I know,” Louise agrees, “The song at the end made me cry more than the film, to be honest.”

They’re talking but Dan’s barely tuned in, fixed on the door - cracked open slightly - and he only listens when Rebecca intercepts his thoughts with a “Dan?”

“Hm?” He looks up to them, then shakes his head, “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

“What are you thinking?” they inquire.

Dan listens to the clatter of a cupboard door downstairs and to the cantillating pulse blooming in his chest. And maybe he should keep it to himself but right now he could be talking to one person or fifty and he wouldn’t stop, and that’s clear as he studies his thoughts for one cursory second before explaining.

“I don’t know. I just.” The words dry up on his tongue as they barge into one another. “I’ve just realised something about, uh, me, and...You know when you have this thought, and it makes you want to scream and make everyone know and just do _something_ but you can’t? That.” It’s quite a common feeling for him, actually: something he feels towards films and music and books, not just people. “Not all the time. But right now. It’s that,” he hastens to add.

Both of them have their eyes on him, and he looks away, embarrassed.

“Just go and help him make the coffee.”

Dan looks to his side, confusion weighing down his brows, to see Louise smiling slightly. She points her head towards the door.

“Just go,” Rebecca prompts.

The suggestion makes the feeling prone to grow, but he stands regardless.

(He needs this.)

“Okay,” he stammers, clumsily standing. “If you insist.” Their laughs elicit a smile from him as he rushes out of the room and down the stairs.

Hovering by the door for a second, he leans on the wall outside the kitchen as he wavers, unsure, and shuts his eyes against addled scintilla. He hears Phil bustling about in the kitchen, can see him when he dares to look. Seeing Phil when he thinks no one's looking - determinedly efficient in his task, but his mind clearly distant, brows furrowing every so often - makes Dan feel guilty, so, composing himself, he kicks away from the wall and enters.

The last tendrils of sunshine splash the wall, laying lacework on the paint and catching in Phil’s eyes. The sun rests just above the cityline, low and dejected. The glare stuns Dan slightly, and he blinks away sun spots as he levers himself up onto the work surface. Dan thinks Phil half-smiles at him before continuing his task, and Dan is happy to watch in quiet as Phil stirs anti-clockwise and spills milk into the brew. It’s the species of moment where you don’t talk, you wait for the other person to start - if they do at all. So that’s what Dan does: he listens to the song of china and shuffling footsteps until Phil speaks.

“I used to make Dad tea,” Phil recalls, and Dan counts the number of times he twists the tea spoon: four too many. “I would make him tea and myself hot chocolate, and he’d talk me through his history books.” Phil’s voice doesn’t crack, not once. Should Dan feel guilty for expecting it to? He doesn’t know. There’s just a crooked smile where wistful anguish used to sit.

Dan feels something turn over in his stomach. “Do you remember anything from them?” Dan asks, instead of paying it any attention. All he can see is the cupboard doors, flung open, behind Phil.

Phil shakes his head no. “I only looked at the pictures.” The look in his eyes is raw. Lifting his coffee cup to his lips, Phil next wrinkles his nose. “Too much sugar,” he mutters, and turns his back to pour the muddy liquid down the sink.

Dan frowns. He wraps his fingers around his own mug and brings it up, wobbling, for a sip. He swallows suggestions and coffee and it tastes bitter and of nothing at all.

He’ll say it eventually.

With the sun falling below the houses, Phil turns back, grins, and hooks his fingers through the remaining two handles of cheap ceramic.

“We should take these up.”

“Yeah,” Dan agrees and slides off the counter. He wants nothing more, right now, than to take Phil’s hand and make whirlwind promises. _It’ll be okay_. But he can’t, he mustn’t.

So in lieu of that, he prises one of the coffee cups out of Phil’s hand and holds the door open with his foot, stretching a smile to make it fit. When Phil skitters past Dan jokes _ungrateful bastard_ before he has a chance to say thank you. The laugh that leaves Phil’s lips is half a consolation.

When they enter Dan’s bedroom, Rebecca and Louise stop talking.

“We were talking about Rebecca’s art project,” Louise answers Dan’s raised eyebrows. “Thanks,” she then directs to Phil as he hands her her drink.

“We have to base it off chaos,” Rebecca adds. “I was wondering if I could use this bedroom as the subject, Dan.”

“Fuck you,” Dan replies. Phil’s looking at him through the corner of his eye and laughing; Dan looks away.

-

_is it weird that i only think when sleep strangles my throat and is it weird that i think about life amongst blurred rooms and black holes and a dead world and is it weird that amongst all of that is you._

-

Phil says that the notes are spur of the moment, really; not well thought out, and they don’t mean anything, so Dan shouldn’t take them seriously. He says it with blown out pupils and cheeks stained a dissenting shade of pink; Dan gives a tremulous nod and somehow ekes out a position of mental calm until he arrives home. He ruminates too much, maybe, but Phil keeps writing _you you you_ and he can’t do anything else.

-

How his personal belongings end up scattered across all areas of his bedroom, Dan will never know. Once again he’s hurrying around, his paths jumbled and messy like doodles on the carpet; he’s turning the room upside down, lifting books and folders up by the corner and he’s at the other side of the room by the time they flop down again. Each found item is thrown onto a rough pile on his mattress. He could’ve sworn he didn’t have this much stuff.

“You should say something to him.”

Dan starts at the sound of Chris’ voice, hunched and part way between his bed and the book he has just located.

_Here we go again._ “Jesus, fuck - how long have you been there?”

“Just got here,” PJ speaks this time. Breathing out slowly, Dan stands up straight again and faces the pair. They fill his bedroom doorway, and PJ’s accompanying smile is only fleeting. Dan is, quite honestly, unnerved by the weight of their expressions.

“Do I need to take that key off you?” Dan says, and his smile is dirigible, reliant on whatever Chris and PJ say next.

“The door was unlocked,” Chris opposes.

“Yeah, once you put the key in it.” Dan returns to packing. Walks over to the book he was retrieving before he was interrupted and haphazardly stashes it away into his bag.

“You should tell him _something_.”

Dan ensures he only hesitates for a second before replying, “Are we really gonna do this? We’re not kids. I’m fine as it is.” He focuses on the sheets of his bed, rummaging pointlessly through his personal items.

“That’s very honourable of you,” Chris replies, “But you don’t have to settle if you’d just -”

“No.”

He’s being a bit defiant, maybe, but he’s just so done with this.

“He’ll say yes, if you ask him. I know it.”

Dan almost wants to laugh, bitterly, shortly. This is a fucking pep talk, is what it is. Talking about a boy who won’t matter soon enough.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Okay, okay, we’re sorry,” PJ apologises, lifting his hands in a futile surrender. “But. I think he will, Dan, he -” PJ stops himself, regathering his thoughts with a momentary shut of his eyes and a _tsk_ that sticks in his throat.“He really cares for you.”

Dan screws his eyes shut for a heartbeat, fingers tightening on the duvet they’re buried in. “I’ve got over it. Maybe you should, too.” Then he’s stitching a smile to both corners of his mouth as he slings the bag over his shoulder. “You gonna let me go, or is this some sort of hostage situation?”

Any previous hostility is lost - or so he hopes - as Chris and PJ smile foolishly, before moving aside.

-

Phil is tidying away books, narrow fingers slotting between the gaps to fit them in, and Dan is thinking as he stares at the space just underneath Phil’s neck. It is very hard to convince yourself of something when your two best friends won’t shut up about it.

Phil catches him staring. “Have I got something on my face?”

Dan smiles, “No. Sorry, just fazed out for a second,” and that’s the end of that.

-

The next day and Dan just wants to while away some hours talking with a book split between his hands. He walks into the library with two sloshing coffees in hand, and is met with chatter and the receptionist’s smile and no Phil.

Dan won’t give in straight away, though, and he struggles around the shelves searching for him. The colours of spring scratch at his throat as time washes over him. Unreasonable panic flounders in his abdomen. He’s in a foul mood. He just needs someone today, needs him -

“Where’s Phil?” he eventually asks, can’t help thinking that he could have been more polite as the worker looks to him. Their eyes narrow in question beneath their dyed fringe before returning to normal - perhaps they recognise him from his many, many visits.

“He called in sick, I’m sorry,” they say, and when Dan nods he can feel his own confusion and disappointment knock at his skull.

The worker - Jo, their name tag says Jo - turns to leave, but Dan speaks before they can, before he even thinks it through, “That’s a bit odd, don’t you think? He seemed fine yesterday.”

Jo shrugs. “I don’t really know him, I’m afraid. Call him, or something, if you’re worried.”

This time Dan lets them leave.

There had been that suspicion again, yesterday, which he had acutely ignored. Now, the same speculations are jackknifing at the base of Dan’s throat but - again - he forces them away.

Maybe he just came down with a cold, or slept in and couldn’t be asked to come in. Dan shakes his head: neither of those seem likely.

It’s not the beginning of his concern, but it is when he starts to truly suspect that something is amiss, and thus starts to swell with worry.

-

Dan doesn’t call Phil, in the end, nor does he visit him, but he does message him when he gets home. There is no reply; Dan thinks maybe he’s meant to stay away, and leaves it alone.

-

Later in the month, Dan finds himself in Phil’s study.

“ _Where no Dan has gone before,_ ” he said upon entering.

There’s still a quiet unease he has about Phil, but nothing major has happened to support his case. It’s just little things that Dan could be over-analysing or imagining - but little things build up.

As he has only seen glances of this room through the door, Dan takes his chance to see it to its full extent.

From the door, and at glance, he can’t make out much detail; as he already knows, there’s the desk and chair pushed to the windowed edge, as well as the bookshelf that encompasses the far wall, side to side, top to bottom. Unlike before, he can now see the low, just-crimson couch and poster of _A Starry Night_ opposite the desk. The remaining wall is blank save the door; all four are painted a diluted shade that Phil informs Dan is called _Alice Blue,_ with a sloppy smile as he picks off a scrap of blu-tack. All of Phil’s walls seem to be different shades of pastel, from the top of the colour charts you get at Homebase; they don’t exactly go with each other - walking through into another room is a mess of colour - but, on their own, they work. The room is perhaps six paces long and four wide, filled with a stone-grey carpet that Phil kicks at, complains that he can’t change it and doesn’t really know what he’d change it to, anyway. The colours aren’t perfectly co-ordinated, but they all still seem to fit, and it’s better than anything Dan could have done.

“Can I?” Dan gestures between himself and the room in front of him.

Phil shrugs a shoulder. “There’s not much to see, but if you want,” he permits. So Dan’s socked feet head straight for the bookshelf, and he takes a closer look.

The shelves way above him contain books rarely used: Puffin classics, _how to_ manuals and non-fiction texts with a fine coating of dust; the ones nearing the middle have tread marks where the books have been dragged out, or they have no dust at all: Shakespeare, JK Rowling, Hemingway, the Bronte sisters and J.R.R. Tolkien filed in literary strata of varying heights. Gaps appear most of the way up, where books have been removed and their neighbours have slumped to the side. The segments of shelf in arm’s reach of the desk are not as uniform, for these few shelves consist of notepads and stationery scattered every which way, and mislaid trinkets join them.

Dan, ever aware of Phil’s eyes on his back as he meanders along, says, “It’s very nice.”

“Thanks.”

He’s trailing his finger along the boundary of a shelf as he goes and he’s about to finish, turn away, when something catches his eye.

Empty spaces play draughts along the shelf, gaps in the dust - inscripted as squares and parallel lines - that are barely noticeable except when Dan runs his gaze along the wood, and thus the vacant patches catch him straight on. Side by side with doodled-on envelopes and souvenirs, something used to be here, and the shapes resemble photo frames. It’s an instinct but it cannot be shaken; Dan doesn’t know what pictures they boasted, but he can guess.

Saying nothing - what can he say, anyway? - Dan drops his hand and spins on one foot to face the desk. In doing so, his gaze subliminally flies to Phil. Dan hooks an innocent look, proceeds to study the counter.

Among strewn notes and lined paper reposes a notepad. It has perfect binding and an ink stain that assails the bottom right hand corner.

“What’s in it?” Dan asks. His fingers find the edge but daren’t tug it open.

Phil crosses the metres between them and is at his side as he says, “Writing.”

“Your book.”

“Well.” Phil grins to himself, “I’d barely call it a book.”

Dan takes it in both hands and an objection rightfully comes from Phil’s lips, but all he does is rifle through it, too fast to see anything meaningful. Once or twice he spies the serrated teeth of pages torn away, but that’s all. In a couple of seconds he lays it down again.

“I won’t ask if I can read it,” says Dan, “because the answer will be no. Which is fine.”

“Thanks,” Phil replies, apologetically, “One day.”

A pause drops and Dan speaks again, “What’s it about?” Quietly, quietly.

A fissure of light lies between them, but the cornflower blue of the sky is ruptured by oncoming clouds coming from the west. They appear sonorous, with grey underbellies and bulky chests - thunderclouds.

Phil’s path of sight falls level with his, Dan knows that by now, but still he is shocked when Phil looks at him directly.

“What would you do if the world were dead?” It is no more a question than a passing statement and it indites a cold shiver along Dan’s spine. “Everyone is gone, nature is barely living, there is nothing you can do to save it. And you and this stranger are the only ones left, you think. You’re going to die. What do you do?”

It does not sound like an apocalypse or a dystopia, it’s not a form of a popular trope. It sounds very much human. Maybe it says something about its writer, maybe it’s a warning signal in rags of smoke, but all it does is resonate.

Dan wrenches his eyes forward and down again. He tries to consider the question and tries not to think - not to think, _not to think_ \- about the absent photographs and misplaced smiles and how where there was once a dream state, there is now always the same occupying thought. His head spins with it so fast, as every little thing comes together, that it might just unravel. Dan blinks at the pattern in the timber.

“It was a rhetorical question,” Phil says, nudges Dan in the side with his elbow, “Relax.” With one hand he slides the book away and it stops just before it collides with the wall. Phil says, “Come on,” and leaves. On his way out, Dan notices two things: the cushions on the sofa are over-plumped, and the bins contain the rubbish produced by only one person. Has Phil had no one over at all?

Little things, little things.

They don’t have anything planned nor a reason for Dan being there at all, which is new. Phil makes hot chocolate for them both and picks up four chocolate digestives - the chocolate melts on his hand - threatens to squirt cream in Dan’s face before they slump down in the living room, mindlessly watching a film on Channel 4.

The lounge is much like every other room Dan has seen: welcoming, calm, messy with personal belongings. The only difference is that it uses warm tones, not cool, though the wall colour is so light, and everything is still very _Phil_ , that it’s only subtle. The wall paint is a diluted, almost orange beige that Phil informs him is called _Cosmic Latte_ with another smile and his eyes looking aside as he drinks.

“ _The average colour of the universe,_ apparently,” he explained, and Dan had processed that, crinkled his face in a smile and exclaimed _that’s so nerdy, oh my god._

Apparently, warm tones are meant to be stimulating and soothing to emotions, so are suited to social rooms; maybe Phil thought about his colours a little, after all. Not that it matters. Not by a long shot.

The sofa is made from a smooth material he’s never seen before, there’s a rug in the centre below a coffee table, and the TV is balanced on a suitable table in conjunction with the couch. Along one wall snakes a bare mantelpiece, gas fire swept clean.

Phil suggests a rematch of Mario Kart and insists that Dan has to use the wheel, and the result is a lot of _you doing alright there, Dan?_ and Dan consequently shushing him several times over, waving a hand in Phil’s general direction to silence him, and a final _stop bullying me_.

Eventually, there is a thunderstorm - it takes a long time coming. Phil leaves to unplug everything - _you’re too cautious, oh my god_ \- and they wait the storm out without TV, with only their scorched tongues and silence. The substantial stream of rain surrounds them with convoluted rhythms of water striking glass and roof tiles; the thunder rumbles, heavy, hoarse, and avalanches down on them as it passes over their heads. Once the lightning strikes there is the bated-breath wait for the sound waves to billow out towards them. Phil leaves the curtains open so they can survey the lightning instead of each other.

“What do we do if this doesn’t end?” Phil wonders.

“Then we’re fucked,” Dan says, brash while Phil’s being whimsical, and Phil scowls slightly because of this. “But you have enough biscuits for us to survive several days.”

“I bet the thunder is really NASA trying to cover something up.”

Dan huffs a laugh but asks, “Like what, Phil?”

“Space wars...Intergalactic firework parties…” Phil lists them, counting each idea off by bending back a finger. He’s facing Dan from his end of the sofa, side pressed into the cushion and face resting against it. They’re both lolling where they sit, comfortable and calmed with each other and the knowledge that they can’t go anywhere or do anything until the rain ceases.

“Of course.”

“We’re onto them,” they both say, look at each other.

“That was weird.”

“Let’s never do that again,” Phil agrees.

-

Dan drags out Phil’s Monopoly from under the TV table, prises the lid up by catching his finger in the space where the two edges have torn apart, and passes a question to Phil with a tilt of his head.

Phil sighs. “ _Yes_ , we can play it.” Rolling his eyes, he falls to his knees, and assists Dan in sorting out all the pieces. “It’s not as fun with only two people,” he points out as he stands the shoe upright.

“We have no choice.”

“Yes, we do. Not play it.”

“Don’t act like that, you know you want to play.”

Phil’s mindlessly playing with the silver dog, dancing it across the floor and onto Dan’s knee. It rests for a second. “I suppose so.”

Five minutes in, Dan cheats by taking too much money out of the bank, and, in the midst of the casual argument, asks, “Do you reckon the government are really hiding something from us?”

Phil shrugs. He tugs the money Dan shouldn’t have out of his pinched fingers and stuffs it back into the box. “NASA could have discovered anything and not tell anyone. It’s not like anyone else knows what any of the data means.”

“But do you think they are actually doing that?” Dan rolls the die but doesn’t wait to see how it lands; he’s too busy awaiting Phil’s reply.

“Do _you_?”

Dan rolls his eyes but says, “I’m sure there’s pointless stuff, like meteoroids that won’t actually hit us. But I don’t know.”

“Right.”

“So…?” Dan prompts.

“Well, if you discovered something huge, something that could harm us, would you want to tell anyone?”

Outside, the drum of rain crescendoes. Dan counts the drops but stops after eleven.

“You need to stop with your rhetorical questions.”

Phil laughs and proceeds to move Dan’s counter the five steps the die indicated. It lands on one of Phil’s hotels, and thus begins Dan’s decline.

(The game may or may not end with Dan throwing one of the pieces at Phil, but it misses, so it doesn’t count.)

-

“So you believe in aliens, then?” Phil asks Dan, withdrawing from under the table - Monopoly counter in hand - and sitting back up.

“Yeah.” Dan takes the proferred piece and places it back in the box. “Out of this infinite universe, there’s bound to be other life.”

“Mhm.” Pulling his legs up to his chest, Phil sits opposite Dan with his chin resting on his knees. For a moment, he stares off into space - eyes fixed on a far corner of the room, just over Dan’s shoulder - and Dan says nothing. “If you think about it, aliens probably believe in us, too. We've got our own intergalactic cheerleaders.”

-

The storm ends, and this time Dan insists on helping with the re-plugging. They finish quickly enough and fall back onto the sofa. They do not turn the TV back on.

It is nine o’clock and hushed when the telephone rings. The room is wracked with the smell of rain and now it is wrung dry with the shrill sound. Phil blinks harshly, and Dan knows he utters a surreptitious curse by how his lips slice open and shut in quick succession. The phone does not get answered.

Normally, Dan wouldn’t question this, as his own preference is to leave all calls abandoned. But now he’s surveying Phil, gauging his reaction, and it’s clear to him that this is down to something else.

Dan speculates what Phil has labelled them as on the landline: _Mum + Dad? Parents? Home?_

The ringing cuts off like a snapped branch and still there is no recognition that it happened at all.

A cracked calm crashes between them. Phil barely meets Dan’s eyes before retracting his cold gaze.

The sudden sense of it sets his mind working, clogs working and thoughts welling up, overwrought, until they cave out from between his teeth.

“You can’t just -”

“I can.”

Dan doesn’t know what he had meant to say next, so he takes Phil’s voice and skewers it to the end of his own, treating it as the mismatched other half of his sentence. For now, he will let it slide, because he doesn’t have the composure nor the articulacy to tackle it. He hopes that he will when an opportunity presents itself. It’s not about proof anymore, not now that he has convinced himself that his suspicions are correct. Phil will know what he is on about; he just has to muster up the words to do it.

He doesn’t get any joy for his success: just more unease.

The vowels and consonants he has pieced together seem to remain on his lips, noetic and acrimonious and crimson red. Dan waits for another conversation to be taken up by swinging his leg up and focusing on if he can ask for more coffee.

It’ll be okay - he will succeed.

-

_i once met a dinosaur called fred. he had a smile for a grimace and purple scales on a tail that curled when he frowned. he asked me what it was like for us humans to live without believing we would ever die and i thought of us. i smiled and he asked if i was crying._

-

Dan says it on the phone because he can’t say it face-to-face.

To say the conversation cuts off would be a lie. It doesn’t cut off - nor does it break, or snap away, or shatter. It fades, dissipates like the spilt jug of shades in a sunset: there one moment, and you look away and back again to find it gone and grey. There’s Dan’s “so yeah” and Phil’s content huff of a laugh, followed by a car horn blaring from Phil’s end - and that’s overlapped by the slap of a shut door on the street below Dan. Even once it has tapered off and away, it’s not silent: the static lives on, and every sound after - a footstep, a car swerve on tarmac, a caught-in-throat breath - is an added bead in his head. They all thrash and crash together, and the sensation is smothered panic as he realises the conversation is imminent.

Dan cannot help but stare fixedly at the crockery that has gathered over his room like glass scars. They let him pretend he can see his reflection distorted in the glass, instead of having to see Phil in his head. The silence rattles its chains, louder and louder and louder, until -

“Did you ever talk to Laura in the end?” he asks, feigning casual. As smoothly as the conversation ended, it begins again.

“Yeah,” Phil says after a heart beat, and Dan’s chest deflates.

“You did?”

“That’s what I said,” Phil replies, but any coldness is absent.

“I know. I’m just glad.”

It’s felt a bit like he’s been playing middle man the last few weeks; not in the way of “he says she says” and blood-scrawled messages, but in the way that he’s been trying and hoping to bring one side back to the other.

“So am I.”

“When did you talk to her?”

“About a fortnight ago, maybe.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Dan sulks.

“It’s not like it matters much.”

Dan scoffs, “Right.”

“She’s going abroad,” Phil ploughs on, and the sentence is poignant and lax in Dan’s ear as he sighs and softens, “I know.”

“It’s so weird to think about.”

“It’s only for six months or so,” Dan says, feebly.

“I never thought it would happen, though. Even when everything ended, I - you never expect this.”

“No,” Dan concedes, but the word is a rough rush of air so he repeats, “No, you don’t.”

“It’s a good opportunity, though. And God knows we all need one of those.”

Dan isn’t _rendered_ speechless, he just has nothing to say. He falls silent. He contemplates. The thoughts in his skull bang out a clear rhythm; the words are sticky and determined on the roof of his mouth. No matter how he scrapes at them and attempts to silence the melody they continue, until -

“I think you should say something to him.”

It stops.

Everything stops. The static and the roads and the breathing.

“And say what?”

That’s not the response Dan was expecting. Every scenario in his head ended with Phil leaving, or hanging up, or an argument ensuing. He hadn’t thought he’d be given a chance, even if it is served on a smarting platter - so much so that he doesn’t know where to turn for a second.

“I don’t know,” Dan admits, and hastens to continue, “Not exactly. But you’ve got to try and set things right with him. Talk some sense into him, find something online to help, say that nothing has changed since - you know. Maybe your mum could - I don’t know. But you’ve got to try. I can’t bear to see you like this any longer.”

What he will say next is a mystery, and Dan bites his lip as he waits.

“Aren’t you just meant to cut yourself off from these people?”

“Maybe. But you can’t, Phil, have you seen yourself? He was okay with it before.” Phil snorts and Dan says, “Kind of okay. It’s worth a shot.”

“Dan…”

“Do it for yourself, at least. Please.”

The minute that follows feels like the torn-stitches side of a garment, stained silence soaking through his ears and mouth from the velvet folds of his room.

“I’m going to go now, Dan. I have work in the morning.”

“Wait,” Dan blurts out. “Won’t you think about it?”

“I’ll think about it.” Impassive words. There is the sound of the line cutting off.

Dan breathes a sigh of relief as his phone drops between his fingers. It was messy, he’d done it so messily, and with a tang of haste, but he has done it. His head falls back onto his pillow; he holds some accomplishment in the edges of a small smile.

-

A lot of the time, Dan feels like nothing. Bathyal, attention snagged by clouds and coffee stains and blank walls as he stares outwards from behind watery glass. One army overthrew the other long ago and it’s due to this that there is one side of thinking for him: bottom of the pile, a hinderance; there’s only a gaping hole left, nothing to love. God, it’s so hard to see that there is anything worth caring for in him. Anesthetised, for the most part he floats along a lackadaisical norm that questions if anything is wrong at all. The feeling isn’t poignant enough to tell, often.

Every other week or so he is deep enough to know he’s drowning. For reasons unknown, the cast-away dejection bloats and clogs him like there is a corpse strung to his ankle.

En masse, his selection of emotions are immured in an ignored section of his brain. It is only occasionally, when curiosity, fatigue, or desperation floods everything, that he takes them out and gawks at them. Tips the carafe upside down and parses the wine stains on the carpet. Chroma - amaranths, lovats and saffrons - like regicide in his tear ducts and the spears of his gritted teeth. There is not much to see, and what is left is bleak and bewildering, and so the domiciliary session is concise at best.

-

There’s laughter, of course. Smiles. Moments where the Nothing is tranquil. They shake his chest clean and fill it up. Dan takes these and nurtures them, treasures them between his knee caps. Close to the ground and able to fall, he keeps them here because it feels like there is nothing left worth protecting in his chest. There’s a murmuring that promises he can dismiss them whenever he wants. Meaning: they will not last.

-

Dan thinks it would be easy if it were quiet. All he would have to do is close his eyes and breathe silently through his mouth, and it would feel like he’s not here at all. But, of course, it’s not. The traffic is not the loudest, his disjointed humming is not the loudest, the clock in the landing is not the loudest. The dirty glassware outweighs them all; a couple are at opposite corners of his desk, one on its side at the foot of his bed, another balancing on the wobbly cushion of his chair. They’re talkative. They whisper _how are you?_ and it whirls round and round from the bottom up, the bubbled glass warping it until he hears _how could you?_ and _who are you?_ and cracking variations of the in between.

Each sits comfortably as a reminder wherever he looks. Time skips, jolts back and forth, hours fly by without kissing goodbye and still he does nothing, he knows. He knows and the unwashed crockery won’t let him forget.

Hand disorientated, Dan drinks from the cup on his bedside table - glass too, of course, and his hand shakes - and his teeth clack on the brim. It sounds like the clock augmented and it feels odd on his teeth - so he keeps doing it. He gulps and bites and tries to drown out the reminders. He holds his bitterness between his four front teeth.

The clock skips forward another ten minutes in the blink of an eye and still he has done nothing. Annoyance ensues, his fists clench and his head buzzes, but he’s too tired to move and to pace, glued to the crook in his mattress. Dusk is drawing in and Dan thinks about space and flowers like the ones straining in the breeze on the pavement opposite. He’s lonely and longing for company.

Dan attempts to compose himself but he ends up a tangle; he tries to smile but it does nothing; a yell blooms in the scratching at the back of his throat. And then, and then, and then -

The doorbell rings.

Dan drifts out of his room and down the steps, he thinks about how he can’t remember the last time he heard the doorbell, not about who it could be. He saves that for when he reaches for the handle.

It could be Chris or PJ. Jack could have forgotten his keys - so could’ve Tim, or Niall.

Dan slowly lowers for the handle, goes for smooth as he opens the door but it comes out a jerk of movement. He winces.

Phil is five edges of cracked milk glass on Dan’s doorstep, and if Dan's holding his bitterness between his teeth, then Phil has it splashed across everything, staining the edges of his eyes and his mouth, caught in his cheekbones and his eyelashes.Doused from the light mist, Phil’s wearing his glasses, hair falling onto and behind the lenses. The first thing Dan registers is his odd socks.

Shoulders fitting neatly between the blank eyes of the house behind, he offers a mismatched smile. Mismatched, for the wideness of it does not reach his eyes, which light up slightly but not enough. It could easily be the moon. They’re bleary, with a lambent reflection of light. His arms hang flaccid at his side.

Dan steps back as he pulls the door all the way back on its hinges. External light paves a path between the pair, tugging them forward with an abstract desire to puncture the purity with a foot or shadow.

Trying to keep surprise out of his voice, Dan says, “Hi,” waves and watches the dance of his fingers’ shadows.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” Phil elucidates. “And I feel odd, so I thought I’d come here. I don’t know what else to do, but this feels right. Um. I thought you wouldn’t mind; actually, it felt like I _knew_ you wouldn’t, because of - well, everything - but I can’t actually know unless I ask, so is it okay?” His hair falls into his eyes again, and as a twitching hand lifts to push it away, his sleeve slips to reveal a frenetic doodle of rough flowers and trees detailing the flesh between his thumb and wrist. The way he speaks shows he’s rolled the words around his head and cut them into his tongue many a time during his journey here. Gabbling and swallowing and throwing words away as soon as they are said so he can fit it all in, he waits, shuffles a foot on the path.

“Are you gonna do it tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Phil breathes, nerves riling his gaze and worrying the surroundings. “Tomorrow evening.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Dan finally relieves him from his wait and straggles forward, “I just don’t know what I can do to help.”

“This is enough,” Phil offers.

“Mhm,” Dan hums, unconvinced. They both sigh. The thorn-jut of the door frame and the moon-highway lie between them.

Refraining from making eye contact at this moment, Dan casts his gaze up to the slot of the sky, and soon smiles.

And, see, Dan’s still in that spaced-out mood. So, without thinking it through, he tugs on Phil’s hand and pulls him down the path, says with a rush of awe, “The stars are out.”

Rags of cloud patch up the sky, slips of dark silver, fraying at the edges. Void wounds lie beneath, bleeding scintillating light out of their punctures. The colour is stronger against the cloud. He’s never thought much about it, but he appreciates the look of partially clouded night skies more. It livens it up more, makes it three-dimensional and brings it to life.

The moon shines, rustic, from its position tucked between two rooftops; it’s glow is clogged by the gloom. It looks like it’s past its expiration date.

“Where are you taking me?” Phil inquires from the end of Dan’s arm.

“The garden.”

“You have a garden?”

Dan looks behind him and grins an expired smile. Everything up to now has been held at a distance that is not seen but felt. He’s not sure how he fit through the door so easily when Phil was just outside it and holding Dan’s hand, or whether the smile is belated or heartfelt, but neither matters as he waltzes them down a susurrous side passage and through a rotting gate. The frosty bite of the air on his face and his lungs is refreshing and his fingers still cradle Phil’s, and he returns to reality, more choppily but also more quickly than he left. Ennui still flutes the edges of his mind, but at least the fog has lifted.

“It’s a patch of grass and a crap patio, but it counts.” Dan’s reply echoes.

The garden is just as Dan describes; a square of grass, long and dew-speckled, with a poor excuse for a patio and an even poorer excuse for flowers. A crowd of three empty plant pots - all with cracks up their spines - glowers from beside the back door. On the plus side, no trees barricade the edges and the next house is a good amount of metres behind, so the sky is clear for them to look at.

Rocking to a stop, the pair stand as dilapidated towers side by side, hands pressed together barely like a forgotten forethought. Dan’s left arm to Phil’s right.

Dan names the colour of their night-drowned skin _pathos_ , thinks it is beautiful, and breathes at each constellation he names. It doesn’t take long to run out of ones he knows, so he breathes at every shape he carves instead.

“May it be an evening star?” Phil gasps in faux surprise, and their treaty breaks as Dan uses his elbow to poke him in the ribs, “Shut up.”

Phil’s glasses slip down his nose as his mouth buckles under a laugh, mirth splitting his face lengthways, and he uses his left hand to push them back up, tilting his head back to the sky.

The constellations Dan knows step behind their own clouds; Dan looks at Phil instead. He’s looking at him because people are beautiful even if they are ripped, hold more intricate pieces than the night sky. And then Phil looks at Dan. And Phil - Phil looks at him like he’s beautiful, too.

_Everyone is beautiful because to be alive holds worth, to be part of humanity is ornate_ \- Dan had suggested as such before. For the first time, Dan places himself alongside _everyone_ \- starts to include himself - and yeah, he’s starting to see in himself what Phil does.

Dan’s breath does not catch. He does nothing. Just blinks a few times before looking back to the sky.

A wicked smile takes over his face.

“I always thought that the stars represented loneliness -”

“Shut up!” Phil cuts him off. “Oh my _God_ ,” he says when Dan cackles, “You’re unbearable.”

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” Dan apologises when he gets a breath to do so.

They are quieted again by nothing in particular, picking up solace from between the blades of grass at their feet and tucking it behind their ears. It’s not as if they’ve never seen the night sky before - it was just a pleasant surprise to see the stars after days of clouds - so the effects wear off soon enough. Still, they remain.

Their chilled hands find each other again, properly this time - they don’t react. It’s severed heart lines and clammy palms sewn temporarily with silence. One doesn’t talk of it. They’ve taken their problems outside with them. It weighs their heads. Chimera stand at their shoulders as purport comrades, breathing hot and brazen down their necks. Out in the open but kept quiet; both are aware that the other is deep in trouble even if they cannot name what the issue is. Rough sketches, gut feelings, those are enough.

-

“Do you want to watch something?” Dan asks as they stumble back inside, hands tucked into their jacket sleeves and their eyes red.

“Are your housemates never home?” Phil’s eyes dart between the molasses of shadow, and Dan doesn’t bother to find the light switch.

“They are, you just have uncannily good timing,” Dan tells him as he swings open the lounge door - he falls into it, more like, he’s so giddy. Giddy, yet sweetly hollow. The fatigue of their red-rimmed demeanor hasn’t reached their brains, only their limbs. Lining his feet up perpendicular with the doorframe, he says, “I’ve got _Return of the King_ still in the player?”

Phil nods and rests his eyes on Dan, smiles, and the reflection in his glasses creates a synthetic spark in his eyes that Dan is happy to believe; _yes, very good timing indeed._

When Phil drops down a box of tissues before sitting down himself, Dan laughs, and when Phil sits at one arm of the chair, Dan scoots closer, and Phil doesn’t move away. They press closer, if anything, Phil’s feet hooked up beside him, head eventually finding Dan’s shoulder, Dan’s feet kicked up on the table. Listening to their deep breathing as they follow in late cannon, they’re stuck together at the hip.

It is bottom-of-swimming-pool comfort. Maybe everything is going under, but what strikes him first as he sinks is always the submerged serenity. Everything is messed up, new perspectives and water for wings, ignoring the pressure in his lungs. Reality is just the swimming dapples of light reflected onto the roof, the ones that shiver with the ripples. Fleeting, but it is a whole new mood that he will feast on like a vulture in this moment.

It is the most comforted and unconcerned he has been in a long while.

-

Three AM rolls around with the end credits playing. Dan stretches, yawns, and they move apart.

“I’ll sleep on the couch, you can have my bed.”

Phil frowns, “But that’s not fair on you.”

“Then _you_ take the couch.”

“No,” Phil says with a forward tone that makes Dan raise an eyebrow, “too cold and uncomfortable.”

Dan blinks. “You can take Jack’s bed, or…” he offers, searching for a reason not to share. He’s not explicitly against it - and that’s the issue.

Phil wrinkles his nose, “That’s creepy. We’ll have to share,” stands, stretches, “if you’re okay with that.”

“I’m too tired to argue,” Dan dismisses it, rubbing his eyes. Switches off the TV.

It takes fifteen seconds to climb the stairs, and ten more to get to Dan’s bedroom. The curtains remain torn open. They don’t even bicker over who’s hogging the duvet. They’re out of it soon after their heads hit the pillow, before Dan can bother to move himself farther away.

-

In the late morning, Dan reaches out an arm and lightly touches Phil’s arm with a _good luck_. Last night must still be lingering in his confidence.

Phil almost seems to lean into it, if that’s possible in the fleeting moment it rests there; it looks like his hand moves towards Dan before he pulls it back.

“Thanks,” says he, gives a daringly large smile, and then he’s gone.

Thunder clouds roil the sky, and Dan hopes Phil will get home before it starts a downpour.

-

The next morning finds Dan in the library before Phil gets in for work, so he finds a corner, a beanbag, and a book with a yellow cover. He’s humming a happy song by a sad artist, recalling the night before last and picking it apart like daisy petals: _he loves me, he loves me not._ The events give the tremulous impression that maybe, just maybe, he does - a little bit.

The storm clouds haven’t disappeared yet, and it didn’t even rain yesterday, contrary to Dan’s worries. They cast a grey spectre over the land.

Dan can’t quite seem to focus. The words can’t hold his attention as well as his bouncing nerves do, and he reads pages twice to take in what’s happening. The library is barely loud but it’s enough to distract him, and his head flies up each time he hears the door opening - which is really embarrassing, honestly, and Dan sincerely hopes no one is looking at him. Other things pose as a priority, like how one trouser leg is not pulled down as much as the other, or which leg should be on top of the other, or how this space is the one where he first saw Phil.

When Phil _does_ walk through the door, a smile splits Dan’s face with a wonky one-quarter-mark line. Almost as instantly, it falls, crumpled and torn like paper, on the floor at Dan’s fidgeting feet.

Dan can tell something is wrong. Phil’s hair is too tidy and he doesn’t look at all happy to be here, isn’t smiling like he always is because normally he _loves_ work, Dan knows; his eyes are too cold and the bags of derelict purple and navy crack his face open. Anyone could tell anger crashes in blood-red waves under his skin. His shoulders are too square, his stance stiff, footsteps brisk and nefariously determined like he’s caught up in duress, each stride a strike at carnage. The signs are all there, are taunting in Dan’s face, are the prickles that run down his back, are the meteors running dizzy circles in his head. And then, just as his smile did, his heart falls to the ground as nausea claws at his insides: Phil is heading towards him.

_This isn’t happening. It’s not what it looks like. It’s not my fault, it can’t be my fucking fault -_

Even without the telltale signs, one wouldn’t have time to ponder, because when Phil reaches Dan, he collapses onto his chest. Surprise and confusion and apprehension pinch at Dan as Phil digs his nails into his arms; the yellow books clatters to the ground and that’s when Dan realises Phil is crying.

Fear chokes his lungs, thick and dark, but it begins to melt into pity and care as he rushes to hold him, arms hooked on Phil’s elbows.

Soon, the words start, boil over and spit like sparks. They send a wicked, wretched shiver down his spine, and Dan’s arms don’t retreat but they do fall slack.

“It’s your fault. It was always you, and it’s all your fault. You, you, _you._ ” For every assailing _you_ , he pounds Dan’s chest. All Dan can do is stand there, holding Phil’s elbows at the knife edge. It’s painfully dichotomic because it’s intimate; the pain rips them open crosswise so they are vulnerable to each other, wallowing in each other and their solar storms like pools of blood. The last word is snapped over a stressed vowel and a sob.

Dan’s heart falls through the floor, all coherent, calm thought withering along with it.

Though shielded by the bookshelves, Phil whispers. Each broken, provoked hiss makes it all the worse.

Phil’s body heat chills Dan to the bone. It poisons every patch of skin it reaches. Dan looks to the window and wonders dejectedly why it isn’t raining.

And all at once Phil wrenches himself away, as if the recollection of where he is and what he’s doing slaps him, and stumbles back. The emptiness aches with every centimetre Dan’s arms fall on their way down to his side. Phil’s arms also rest at his side, both clenching a fist around themselves. They make no move to scratch away the tears that slip down Phil’s cheeks. There’s nothing Dan wants more than to wipe them away, even if his hands shake; to take Phil’s hands and uncurl them, to plant kisses at each tear drop like they’re roses. He can’t. Of course.

Instead, Dan is torn asunder by Phil’s thorny gaze. The tears flood his brain and fill his throat, thus stopping any apologies, panic, and questions from fleeing - leaving them to fester. Slowly, slowly, a vicious silence is unsheathed between them. Slowly, slowly, slowly, Phil’s stare excoriates Dan, layer by layer.

Because he matters.

_i think i have fallen madly in love with you_ , Dan thinks, lowercase but brave, burning fire, and it’s scary that he thinks that as Phil looks him down, and it’s scary when he thinks nothing of it at all. He was condemned from the start to grasp onto one part of reality - proper, _real_ reality, not just a flicker on a tiled wall - just as he is pushed over the edge.

He tries to sound calm with a, “What happened?”

“You happened,” Phil snaps. “And my dad happened. He hates me even more for trying to talk him round, hates me for arguing, hates me for the shit you made me do. _Everything_ has gone to shit and - and. It’s all your fault,” he quietly wails.

The words come as solar flares and spear heads as they barrel Dan’s lungs. No shouting, though. No, not yet, maybe not ever, and that is even more unbearable. Each word is precise and steady as impulse chooses it. Phil is going to break Dan while broken himself.

“What did I do?”

Phil laughs bitterly, “You have to ask?” He ploughs on, “Everything. You’ve done nothing and everything. You waltz in here and I thought you were one of the best things to ever happen to me. But then I got too caught up in the mess which is you, and you let me, even if you refused to let me become you. I lost a job promotion because I spend too much fucking time with you. I lost my girlfriend. I lost my dad. My life was perfect before you. You’ve ruined everything for me, and I watched you do it until now. I don’t know why I stayed.”

_The loss has deluded him_ , _he doesn’t mean it._ That’s what Dan tries to hold in his mind, but with each word it disintegrates. Coupled with Phil’s lengthened shadow and the certain tone of his voice, Phil’s words sound so true.

They’re both silently crying. Dan’s barely holding himself together by his gritted teeth.

“I never meant for that to happen, I never thought you’d - I was trying to be there for you.”

“I don’t know why I listened to you. You don’t even know what to do, you just like to think you do. But I did; I listened to you and look what happened. And you don’t even listen to me. Fuck, you practically shun me.”

Phil has changed his course and Dan’s lost, stammers, “What? No, I -”

“At least I _listened_ to you. When you told me I was important, told me I was worth something, I listened, and tried to believe it even if I didn’t. I took what you said - all of it - and I tried. But _you_ don’t, and yet you expect me to believe you. Like you know better.”

And it’s not even anger anymore - anguish, maybe. It’s crestfallen honesty, and in that way it is a solar flare because the energy in Phil has snapped and all the thoughts are streaming out, hurt after hurt after hurt. In spite of his arguing, Dan drowns in them because, fuck, he knows Phil is right. That’s what Dan did and how must Phil have felt every time he did? How could Dan be so stupid? So wrong? How could he break something he loved?

Or love something he broke. He is not sure which it is.

“I never said that.” The stress locks in handcuffs around his wrists - that would account for how, as he wrings them, one does not stray far from the other.

He doesn’t know what to do. Dan has never been in an argument before. Quarrels and disputes, yes, but never before has he been in one where words are thrown on high amplitudes as they tear apart the other’s heart, building in detrimentality and pain until both participants want to storm out. There is only ever one door, so only one walks out. They both collapse into their crater of moonlit tears.

Dan doesn’t know which of them is going to leave.

“Oh, but you fucking well insinuated it,” Phil spits back, face contorting in anger and squeezing at Dan’s stomach. “And then you return to your pity palace, wallowing in your own self loathing. And it’s so painful to watch, did you know that? I tried to help but you won’t _let_ me and I don’t know why I put up with it any longer.”

It can barely be called an argument, in some respects. There’s not any obvious disagreement; it’s one sided, and it’s Phil barraging Dan with no signs of stopping. Except his tears. There is none of the disagreement Dan had at the start, but it was there at one point. But no insults are being thrown back and forth, and their voices are hushed and controlled to keep them out of earshot from the rest of the library.

They are both being hurt, ripped at the seams by fury’s searing hands; and after this Dan can’t see them talking again. This is a fall out. One of them is going to storm out holding the corpse of the other’s heart.

Dan blinks, forces air into his lungs, counts to six and two thirds, swallows roughly, because those all seem to be the right things to do.

“Pity palace?” he repeats, and the consonants are too harsh on the crust of his whisper. He decides he hates everything beginning with the letter ‘P’.

“Yes, because that’s what it really is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Feeling down and sorry for yourself, it’s your happy home, isn’t it?”

“No, why would it, why would _I_ -”

“You think it’s selfless and humble but really it’s just you wishing for something better, but not being able to have it because you’re not willing to try. It’s you putting yourself down and feeling sorry for yourself; it’s unhealthy and damaging and the only person who needs to believe all the shit I tell you is you. But you refuse to even try. And you’re not the only one affected.”

Is that what Dan thinks? He never thought so but it’s the only explanation and, oh God, this is all his fault.

“When have I done that?” He’s putting up such a weak, weak fight.

“That time after we read for the children. You even _said_ you didn’t want me to try. And then, at yours, after everything went wrong, you wouldn’t stop until I believed you, but couldn’t say why I had to believe you if you didn’t believe me. But I know why.”

Dan reverts to the only thing he has left: desperate, flimsy truth. “I just wanted to help you. I wanted to help _myself_.” Helping Phil offered him a string of control, made sure he could keep hold of one of the only things that made him feel okay. “You did help me, you made me happy and - I didn’t want this to happen, any of it. I was trying to fix the problem.” Knowing he’s changing the subject, he waits for pity, waits for Phil to stop and smile and forgive him, for it to all go away.

That does not happen. Of course.

Phil gives a mocking, snarl-like grin. “Then tell me, super boy, how are you gonna fix this one?”

Dan shrinks. “Sometimes you know what the problem is but you don’t know how to solve it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Dan! Weren’t you just listening? You _don’t_ know what the issue is. You think it’s that you’re sad, but that’s not the problem here. The problem here is that you’re making an effort to constantly put yourself down and cut people out. If you realised that then maybe you could see the solution. But you won’t. You can’t even see that it’s hurting _me._ ”

  1. Dan blanches. The handcuffs tighten and Dan is, slowly and surely, being brought down.



He begins one last attempt to save this, (Dan has no idea how to keep himself together), “I -”

“Why can’t you just accept that?” Phil cuts him off. The fist around Dan’s gut gives another squeeze because that last question was everything Phil’s voice wasn’t previously: disbelieving, dejected, damaged.

Dan’s choking on crumbs of reality and verbatim, frantic words thought by him so often before: _i love you. i hate myself and i love you, don’t you see? that’s why. that’s always been why._

Now, he’s even doubting that. There’s the inherent answer that Phil is right.

“I don’t know.” He’s giddy again, but he can’t sit down. “I don’t know what to do.”

Phil laughs again, once, and Dan’s pretty sure he flinches. “You never did, did you?”

Daring to look up again, Dan’s eyes lift and lock with Phil’s. They stand like that, muted, pain splashed on their faces along with anger and betrayal and everything else rotten. Dan searches Phil’s expression but his eyes communicate nothing, keep to their guard even as they weep.

This whole time, Phil’s been bending Dan, straining him to his limit - and, well, he’s succeeded. Dan snaps. Anger swamps in and all of Phil’s accusations rile him further. Anger is just the fang-bared side of anguish, after all.

“I want you gone,” Phil announces this louder. His voice sobs when he says, “I need you,” and he gasps before finishing, “out of my life. I need you out of my life.”

Everything falls away. The hum of the library cackles distantly in his ear; Phil’s mouth, still open from the impact of what he said, is a thorn in his side. Dan’s a mess of emotions balancing on a void.

_I trusted you,_ Dan thinks as he hastens to gather his things together, throwing them into his bag as he blinks back salty tears. Fury still eats at him: _how could you? how_ could _you?_ But people are not miracles. Dan had gazed upon Phil like he was a godsend, here to protect and save - when really, he was milk glass left on the doorstep. Dan had leaned onto him too much, and the glass consequently buckled, and finally broke.

Dan is done with university.

Before he leaves, Dan looks back over one shoulder - takes in atrophy and asymmetry and shoves it away. His nose wrinkles in a half-snarl as his eyes give Phil a disdainful once over.

“I won’t be coming back anyway.”

And he leaves. (He’s the one to storm out, but Phil is the one holding the corpse.)

It’s finally raining, a full on downpour. The cold takes a firm grip on his fingers, wraps around his mouth and eyes and wrists. Dan gives a strangled sob and stuffs a hand in his mouth to stop it. Tripping over his own feet, he spurs on, faster and faster.

(Galaxies move faster the farther away they get from the centre of the universe. They’re just running away.)


	11. the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it ends.

When Dan gets home he piles up everything Phil’s ever given him and stuffs it in the crammed wardrobe. He’s got one hand on the door as he sets aside one moment to catch his breath, stares at the stacks of books and memories and decrepit happiness - everything Phil had given him.

He tears down the post-it notes and hates himself as he ensures none are ripped, hates how he lines up the sides so the tacky resin glues them all together in one saturated-colour clump. Staring at them a second, before dragging them over to the wardrobe and chucking them in with the books. He’s _angry_ , for fuck’s sake. Now is not the time for sentiment.

Everything Dan does is swift and desperate. His breathing heaves in his chest as dregs of nausea remain, heart thudding to the funeral march. He can see clearly and yet everything outside of the burning shell of his body seems blurry: thrown away acrylic and punctured lungs. Wanting to scream, Dan goes to the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror. His gaze bores into his own eyes, frantically searching. Masks of dirt and water on the surface of the glass blotch his skin, and, save for his red, puffy eyes, he looks normal. _So why does he feel so wrong?_

His skin seems to writhe and crawl over his bones, and his head aches like he’s trapped inside, like the glass bones and snakes that hug his ribcage finally want to _get out_ : they know how to be treated and this isn’t it.

It’s that feeling - the one where he needs to scream about it and do something - turned sour.

Dan pointlessly splashes cold water on his face and hastens back to his room, darting past his housemate’s doors. Scrabbles for his phone. Oddly composed and controlled, he sends a text to the friends who had the misfortune of knowing Phil and what he meant to Dan, types _never talk to me about phil again_ and throws the device under his duvet.

The one Phil was nestled under. With Dan. Two nights ago. Oh.

Dan doesn’t know what’s happening in his head. It’s loud and eerily quiet all at once. What is clear is that this new found hatred - hatred for the betrayal that is Phil and his dumb barbed-wire-smiles Dan was supposed to run away from ages ago - clings to his every move. Dan fuels it further with the two paracetamol and Coca Cola he downs before heading for his lecture; Dan listens to none of it past the seventeen minute mark.

Afterwards, Dan ignores the messages on his phone - two from Louise, three from Rebecca, four from both PJ and Chris, none from Phil - and sleeps it off.

When he wakes up, he’s properly calm and in control. Everything has left his mind except how he isn’t friends with Phil, and he’s okay with that: he hates him. And even that fact is not racking him with pain, it’s just a small thorn nestled in his self conscious; guarding him from thinking about it at all, keeping him away from Phil.

-

He meets with friends and attends lectures and gets some work done, looks into dropping out of university with a stoic expression. That’s what captures his free time: planning out his escape from this place. This isn’t for him. Law isn’t for him. He doesn’t want to give his life away to an office job and polish under his nails, and no way in hell is he going to pay for that fate to be sealed. He despised university when he arrived; he recognises now with a pinching regret that he should have listened to that instinct.

Three days and he hasn’t thought about Phil past _i hate him._ Three days and he hasn’t cried once. He reckons he’s doing pretty well.

-

“So you’re really leaving?” PJ asks from across the cafe table, calm and pensive and pretty as ever - and it’s good and odd to have a constant in his new life. PJ looks peculiarly grounded in his chair, spinning the teaspoon in his tea clockwise and awaiting Dan’s answer with his eyes straight forward; meanwhile Dan’s sat with the world blurring past unnoticed, deadlines dressed in tan suits, stress yelling into its business headset.

“Yes.” The table has some red gingham print for a cloth and a pot of non-bendy straws in the centre, and Dan takes one and sticks it in his coffee.

“Why? Can’t you stick it out ‘til summer?”

Dan shakes his head, “I don’t want to stress over exams for a subject I don’t want to do. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

“This isn’t about Phil, is it?” PJ says outright.

Dan furrows his brow at the accusation, looks at him with narrowed eyes and exclaims, “No! No way,” laughs and spins a whirlpool into his latte, “That dumb friendship was the only fucking thing keeping me from leaving. I thought I even _liked_ uni because of it. And now it’s gone, and I know where I stand. Law isn’t for me.”

PJ looks as glum as possible when his expression remains straight-faced. PJ is breathtaking, everyone knows, even him; though he doesn’t flaunt it, Dan is convinced he does some things - wears that one jacket, does that hair ruffle, wears the composed expression that fits over his jaw and brings out his eyes - because he’s aware how they work for him. So Dan’s not offended: it’s probably just subconscious for PJ now and he can read him easily enough. He easily notices the crease of his forehead and knows he suppresses a dozen questions.

PJ does argue, says, “Isn’t that the same thing?” and “Maybe law isn’t for you, but surely something else is? Drama? Writing?” in quick succession; and Dan curses his inability to bite his tongue more. Mind taken back to spider web sheets and pencil lists, like Now and Then are two neighbouring squares on the fucking table cloth, Dan tenses up, snaps a non-bendy straw.

“No.” All of it: no.

PJ gives a jerk of his chin and Dan continues, “I just need to get out.” He ducks his head and hates how it sounds like a plea. The straw rips around his fingers: into two, three, five.

“Have you told your parents?”

Dan brightens at PJ’s shown interest and looks up again, “No,” and it’s relaxed because PJ accepts it, “I will soon.”

PJ finds a rueful smile, “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. But I need to get out more than I need you guys around all the time. I’m sorry. We can still text and stuff. I - I’m really sorry.” And he’s back to his normal self, uncertain and not fueled by anything but the sea salt that sours the back of his throat.

PJ says nothing. He slips around the table and into the chair next to Dan’s, he rests his head on Dan’s shoulder. Dan finds he doesn’t mind.

PJ’s warm and comforting. Attractive to everyone but Dan, sure, but still pretty. Dan could - no. It’s just an acknowledgement of his appearance, not attraction itself. He’s not letting everything control him like this.

He says the same to all the other friends he tells: law’s not for him, he needs to get out more than he needs them. Sorry. (He only acknowledges Phil if they bring him up. _No,_ he’ll tell them, maybe with a laugh. It’s not because of him.) (They all ask.)

This is a good plan, and it’s working. He’s settling into a new routine and he’s got a pass time, an end goal. Thinking about leaving university carves a biting grin into his skin, and he says goodbye to everything he sees even though there are weeks left to go. The way to keep himself together is by focusing on leaving university, especially on how it’s not because of - well, Phil. His friends spend their time exchanging worried glances and watching Dan with matching frowns; Dan skips between them all with a laugh thrown up into the raw crosswind. This whole thing is exhilarating: he’s gone, he’s free, and his friends’ confusion paints his chest ugly with careless glee. Dan can’t even feel sad anymore. The way to keep together is to plait itching ropes with repeating goodbyes and concern he cares nothing for, and tie them to everything that needs fixing: his teeth and edges of his mouth, his heart, mind, hands. The way to forget is to believe this is everything he wants.

So Dan has never wanted something more.

Dan spent that first night making a new guideline for himself: _you hate Phil, don’t think about what he said; just don’t go to him. You’re leaving soon and it’s not because of him. He’s not worth that much to you._ He doesn’t even have to remind himself of them by the second person he informs of his leaving. He’s convinced of it. Think about leaving. Not about _that_. And it works. It’s all working out and Dan’s happy.

The guidelines draw borders around him, but Dan loves the lines, loves how the grid it draws around him is like a sugar-glazed chessboard. This is a game he’s playing with everyone, including himself.

Habit sticks fast and itches. He’ll start heading for the library. Realising the mistake, he’ll stop himself, sneer in contempt and send a curse that ricochets down the pavement to the library door, before he turns away.

Dan buys small Yankee Candles from Clintons just to melt them all the way down. He pours the wax out in diseased shapes and coats his fingertips with its heat. It cools on his skin and shows his fingerprint through the translucent coating. He marvels at it, rock-hard and careless in the drops down his fingers. The first colour he buys is cherry red and it’s like a scorch mark for every touch they shared.

Letting it rest for a while - he tries to do everyday activities without damaging it and every few minutes he twists his wrist and gawks, awe-filled, at it - Dan peels it off and laughs when it sticks under his nails, sticks his tongue out through a garish smile at the irritated colour stain left behind. He brushes the fragments together like they’re reasons about to fall and throws them out into the rain.

One shade looks like _Cosmic Latte_ and Dan considers for mere seconds before caving. The hue spends longer on his skin and burns cinnamon. Prised off carefully and arranged in an arc, they resemble acorn shells on his desk.

Another is the wrong shade of blue. Dan deliberates what to do with it for a while, then lets it cool and throws it into the dustbin outside. The shade smashes against the black curve of plastic.

His room reeks of a miscellany of excoriated scents; spiced orange and mediterranean fruits ignited to their rock bottoms and discarded wherever it is available. But soon Dan’s sense of smell adapts to the onslaught and it’s not enough.

But, God, this joy - leering and two-faced - feels so good. It’s adjuvant on his tongue when he tells Louise _i’m fine thanks_ and offers to carry her bag.

Easter is in the middle of April and it’s drawing near. He’s going to leave then. Three weeks and this will all be over.

-

The emotion Dan felt that day was drawn out of him like a scream, and he thinks about it often. The guideline runs on a cassette in the back of his mind, it behaves during the day but when he’s alone and his brain wails, it unravels. He ends up chest-deep in it, the tape winding around his ears and fingers and lungs like sleep, tangled and decadent.

-

Dan needs to call his mum, so he does. Just like he told PJ he would.

She starts telling him about her trip to the bakery last week and the new neighbour she met there - _called himself Barry. That’s odd, isn’t it? Who calls themselves that?_ \- and how it rained earlier today and the wind knocked over their potted fern, _did it rain for you, too, dear?_

And Dan was going to tell her, he really, truly was. He doesn’t go back on promises, doesn’t resist if he’s set on a plan - but he goes to tell her and he just _can’t_. Telling his parents seals it. Dan needs this desperately, he can’t _not_ leave, but it’s not real. Real was a game, it was surreal and joker-smiles and the yellow wax under his nails; it didn’t need to be acted on, it was just there. He can’t live off the real he is about to concoct. This about-to-be-real stands on tiptoes atop his shoulders, swaying and shadowed. Holds onto a branch and swings him forward with velocity.

Even starting to tell her, the seedling of it catches in his throat, “Mum -” and he can’t continue.

“What is it, love? Have you lost your house keys again? You know it’ll be too much to ask the landlord for another set.” His mum always answers the phone with her mouth not quite on the microphone, and Dan can hear that plainly now. The crackle of her voice, the distance.

“No,” Dan acknowledges. He finds himself wearing a false smile and frowns because she can’t see him, why is he bothering? “I just need to go soon. Things to do.”

“Oh, yes, of course, dear.”

Panic at how he’s failed slaps him on the jaw as she continues, “You know I love you, and I’m proud of you. You’re doing so great.”

“Thanks.”

Dan switches the phone to his other ear. It’s only while she’s rambling about the events of the dog park - _last story and then you can go, I promise_ \- that it becomes painfully apparent that he doesn’t apply her words to himself, brushes off the compliment like it’s dirt.

It all comes back to him with arms outstretched; it wraps him in a soggy, shivering embrace. Phil, _fuck,_ Phil.

“Sorry Mum, but I’ve got to go,” and he’s furiously biting back tears that taste of sour lemon drops.

“Are you okay, love?”

“Yeah, fine. Fucking essays, you know?”

“Language,” she reprimands just short of stern, “but alright then. Talk to you soon.”

“Of course.” And he hangs up. And finally, _finally_ , he cries.

_What the hell do I do now?_

-

Now that he’s recalled it fully, it’s different. It hurts.

The change kidnaps his shadow and takes its place. It’s a pitted palimpsest of what used to be; a vestigial, gaping hole where companionable normality belongs. The gap is everywhere and Dan’s habits just can’t move away.

His guidelines crumble and collapse under his reaching hand. His goal of leaving university is a derailed train with wheels that just won’t stop going forward, and he doesn’t even know what he wants to do anymore.

The concerned glances of his friends bite his lip and bristle up his spine. Hatred boils down, leaves a wretched, acrimonious liquid in its place. The distractions of the day run out and Dan enters drought season.

-

He wakes remembering there is no one to visit after his lecture, and it sets him downcast for the day. But he still turns left as he leaves, not right; he stops, about-turns. He can’t go to the library anymore. He runs out of new books. Still, he opens the few he does find with the expectation of scrawled sticky notes. It’s an excoriating, vile poison of habit that needs to stop, and he’s unsuspecting to the holes where the loss reveals itself with peeling edges. Dan’s filters have stopped and he slips into old times - except they don’t exist anymore.

It’s like picking up an empty bottle and expecting it to be full, or thinking there’s one more step on the stairs but there _isn’t_ and you step into thin air. The perpetual support he had taken for granted has been whipped out from under him, and it’s _horrible_. The panic like he has plummeted through nothing, the irregular wrong as he has to stop himself; both feelings smother him. The routine is so strong he continues through the steps, the same sorry string of actions he shouldn’t be committing landing him in frostbitten nostalgia time after time.

Eight days in - six days of coping, two of falling - PJ offers to pick up books for him. Dan nods, genuinely pleased at the offer. It’s only when PJ has left again, slanted pile of books planted on Dan’s mattress, that Dan picks through them. The titles mean nothing to him and the books quickly move to the bottom of the pile as he goes - he’s moving at an agitated speed.

Until - oh, God, one of them is the book with the yellow cover.

Dan stares at it and can’t seem to look away. Pain is a titanium sucker punch to Dan’s rib cage, hissing memories filtering through and dragging him down to muddy depths; the yellow is tainted now, and falls into vanadium static as Dan loses focus.

The book crumples to the floor. Spine side down, its pages wafting fiery-hot goodbyes from the impact. Dan, in turn, collapses onto his bed. Mattress buckling, pressing his face into his pillow is the opposite of cathartic: the material has always scratched and it stops him breathing when he needs to the most. He growls and the sound takes him by the ears and shakes. Why is this happening? He’d held himself up until now, with matchsticks propped between shelves of cartilage and parcel tape running from his lips to the tips of his ears. And, out of nowhere, one book brings it all crashing down.

_Fuck this._

He needs to cry. He really needs to cry, dammit, and he just can’t; the tears are there but won’t fall. It hurts, not just in his chest, but under his eyes. The flesh aches from the weight of the tears that clog his tear ducts. Phil said once that tears shouldn’t be wasted and that they taste like lemonade. Maybe he isn’t crying because this isn’t worth wasting them for. Is that a good thing?

Lying there for a few minutes, with his face growing hot and the oxygen he takes in humid, Dan plays ring-a-roses with phosphenes and hide-and-seek with his own mind. Composure creeps close and jumps back with a half-scared laugh when he lunges for it. A thought evades direct attention, hollows out his stomach as it skids around his head - before finally coming to rest.

_I need you out of my life._

He snaps in two only to find he’s already broken.

-

Dan’s mood descends from there. He has these spells a lot, apathy and fatigue are loyal hitch-hikers of his, but it’s been a while since he’s entered one this bad. It’s been so long since he actually had something to be down about.

The sheets on his bed remain creased and chalky from his neglect, while his room becomes dusty and weary. Thoughts scale the walls and scramble at the situation that immures them with no luck. Dan watches the back of his eyelids. Sees the world through frosted glass.

Tiptoeing the line between numb and breaking down brings danger, and with it, solace. It’s not quite there: it’s white-noise most of the time.

April is crammed data and crumbling biscuits and the mould Chris finds at the back of their bread bin. The night that finds Dan with his forehead pressed to the window is senile and abandoned, crossed ankles strewn over the Easter Week that threatens to arrive in eight days. Dan’s had four days to fit this sad state to his liking.

A moment ago, he had the window open. As his hand passed out into the night, the difference was felt. No drop in temperature, but the air was muggy; cloud lies, dead, across the atmosphere, and it reeks of damp. Something is staining it red, he can see through the glass, the colour of dried blood. It was too eerie and still, so Dan slammed it shut.

He watches as each force of breath clouds the window and dissipates. The reflection of his digital clock reads 55:05. It is, of course, only nearing nine PM, but it’s an accurate depiction of how everything feels: time is warped.

It feels like they’ve broken up even though they never dated. Like something has ended even though there was nothing _to_ end.

But - oh, _God,_ what if there was?

What if PJ and Chris were right? What if the maybes Dan saved for the wrinkles of his pillow were founded? What if they were getting somewhere, nestled in each other’s chests and smiles? What if Phil had cared?

What if Dan had been so, completely, utterly wrong?

It’s too late now, Dan knows. It’s all irrelevant now.

Running down the back of his throat, the realisation tastes like the scorching milk he prepared for himself and forgot to drink for forty six minutes. Horribly lukewarm, sugar deposited in the bottom and sticking to his trachea when he tries to chug it down.

The ‘five’ turns into a backwards three before his eyes.

-

It’s not pretty. It’s damp corners and smashed liquor bottles on kitchen tiles and it’s piecing your soul together with adhesive tape. It’s not crying for hours in the dark, or controlled, or listening to sad music. It’s nothing. Dan’s mind is rotting and he couldn’t care less. The pain is a cage he doesn’t rattle, an ice castle that intoxicates.

Dan goes through a lot of emotions in these weeks: anguish, anger, hatred and denial, heart-break, sadness.

-

End of week three. Three PM.

Dan doesn’t want to leave.

If he leaves that’s giving up, and if there’s anything Dan’s learnt recently, it’s to pursue and pursue and pursue. If he leaves, it won’t be to do that: it will be to sulk and slowly become less and less. PJ was right. Maybe law isn’t for him, but there are other courses, and is he even sure he dislikes law? He really enjoys parts of it. Doing law doesn’t mean he has to be a lawyer. He could look into other careers, he could change courses - there’s so much he could do.

But not at the moment. Because, actually, he doesn’t want to do anything while on bad terms with Phil. (Turns out he was wrong about that, too.)

Which is where he falls flat, isn’t it?

-

He feels so - fuck, he’s been feeling so _awful_. The feeling fills his being, clogs his insides. The dread is like a negative underflow through his body. All he can think about is the issue at hand, irritable fret that drowns him in lethargy and hopelessness. Nothing comes of it. All he can do is worry.

-

End of week three. Five PM.

Dan sits down at his desk, and, head swimming as he rifles about for scrap paper and a working pen, he writes down everything he can remember them saying that day. Stares at it. And it hits.

Maybe Phil was out of order. He was hurt, clearly, and desperate, and at his breaking point; he held Dan close before snapping him over his knee. But, if Dan thinks logically, Phil’s points - minus the insults and accusations of _why_ Dan does it - are true. Dan knew that at the time. His grip on things had relied on forgetting that, forgetting all of it, but he remembers know. Ignorance is bliss, and staring at the wall with your feet tucked under the duvet keeps the monsters away, so maybe that’s why he did it. But all it did was tear him apart.

Dan doesn’t take compliments. Dan doesn’t shoo them away, but he doesn’t believe them or take them to heart. He pushes it all away and doesn’t apply any energy into trying.

And, okay. If he takes away his guilt, he can see that maybe he can’t help but not believe them. But he knows he could try. He could at least take compliments to heart and remember them when he’s down, could not dismiss them yet expect his friends to believe him, could put energy into being the most positive he can be. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be better than what he’s doing now. Oh, God, it must be so awful to watch him wither up and paint his under-eyes black and blue while swatting away any help offered. Kind words won’t solve this, no, but they could be a stepping stone to him believing in himself.

It’s not just that: Dan just does nothing to help himself.

It’s so hard to explain he can barely get his head around it. He’d started off trying to overcome negativity - which was hard enough as it was - but he’d always known half-heartedly that he didn’t have a strong desire to overcome it. Because he hadn’t tried to overcome that feeling, too, he’d ultimately failed, and gave up. He proceeded to grow himself a home from epinastied vines and decline that hid from logical thought. Used to it by now, he’s almost comfortable like this, and it is like he has something going for him - a reason to care for him - even if no one knows; it’s polar opposites, and he figured if he can’t be happy he’ll have to be sad. False gold solace sat at the back of his throat and wiped him clean of how bad it sometimes felt. The logic was twisted, but it had fit right.

Until now.

Trying to open a door when you know you’re using the wrong key was never going to work.

So maybe Phil was the one who snapped, but Dan’s the one who provoked him with rotting, sugar-spun apathy and retreating steps and _this is all my fault oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._

That day, Dan really was angry at Phil - but only because he was angry at himself. Because he’d known Phil was right.

And now it’s too late.

-

 _Good things are like silk,_ someone once told Dan, sat on the doorstep of some classmate’s house during a party. Streetlamps turned the frost and the fences' paint bone white; Dan hugged himself tight, too tired to roll his eyes. _Because they’re lovely but, if you’re not careful, they slip too easily out of our grasp._

-

_we shook hands just so we could get close enough to rip out each other’s heart. we fell into false love like quicksand and got drunk off it; we broke each other part by part, piece by piece._

Red ink, cursive and pressed deeply into the paper. Impressions show through from the other side. Dan flips it over.

_14/02/15. he left._

It’s from a while ago, and fictional. Dan only finds it now, hidden in a book he’d forgotten is denied him. Dan reads it twice.

Crumples it up.

Chucks it at the wall.

(It makes no noise when it hits the wall and then the floor in quick succession. That makes it worse.)

-

Dan goes through a lot of emotions in these weeks. The last one finally arrives: regret.

-

A song improves the more you listen to it, pain shrivels into something bearable the longer it stays, and maybe that’s why Dan had mistaken this for being okay. How horrible it is to think that someone is only made to be here for you.

-

After rummaging through three different drawers, Dan uncovers the pack of post-its he never gave Phil. He flicks at the wrinkle of plastic for a moment in vacillation before ripping it open.

In orange-inked pen, he writes a list off the kind things Phil has said to him. On another, he writes down all the other compliments he recalls loved ones saying; he runs out of space and the list overflows onto another. The font is sinuous by default, and matches the cursive trail of his mouth. He ignores the wobble of his desk and sips warm milk through a straw. Finds flowers under the dirt he threw down and they are not even weeds, for the dandelions shine bright yellow amongst marigolds and hibiscus petals. Proceeding to find the list they wrote, _things dan can do well_ , the pencil marks scratch out letters in spider webs and tangled, graphite limbs reeking of dust. He sets it beside the others and leans back. Squinting - it distorts everything, but it’s like he can see better from the other side of keratin prison bars - he smiles most of a smile. He doesn’t _quite_ believe them, but they are valid because people think them. They are evidence sitting in chalky plant pots out for display, and he files them in his head as such. He’s learning.

-

Time is washing away like wasted antiseptic. Apprehension clings to Dan like limescale because, really, he’s clueless as to what to do.

Phil’s notes are back on the wall, Dan’s own joining them. When he looks at them, they give gibbet-fitting screams. Walking through the rain doesn’t rid him of the limescale; nor does writhing in bed, restless, or drowning fizzy drinks so fast they paint his esophagus a prickling red. Dan talks to Chris and PJ - strings a long-awaited conversation between them, and the three of them use their bitten fingernails to try and scrape the worry away. No real ideas come to mind.

-

Since having nothing to rush home for, Dan now hangs back after his lectures, waiting for the last straggle of students to remain before taking himself away. His feet drag across the floor as he leaves, his upper body curled inwards to avoid notice. His lecturer - a steely man in his late forties - offers him an amiable smile as he slips through the door. Dan knows better than to return it.

He’s walking alone through town at the early, chilled end of seven PM. The sun is still shining - it skims the line of rooftops - this late, signalling spring, but it’s still cold: the temperature stays low much longer than it is supposed to. Soon, it will rapidly rise and there will be no visible proof that he is breathing.

His surroundings remain unfocused until a strained “Dan?” brings it all rushing back. His body freezes like the word has injected him with frozen cyanide, limbs taut and eyes fixed forward. As much as he wishes it is a trick of his imagination, there is the throbbing notion that it isn’t, and so an excited panic takes a hold of him. Should he turn around, or run away?

Dan pivots achingly slow, eyes screwed shut. The void that ensues almost makes it worse; the noises around him grow and loom, the cold sits on his skin like popping candy. Maybe they could stay like this: silent, not seeing each other, in a limbo that stops any fatal possibles happening.

Breathing through his nose, he opens them again.

It feels like so long since he’s seen Phil, but he looks the same, even through the evening light and the blur Dan’s furiously trying to blink away. The crimson jacket he’s wearing is the same, his hair is the same, only more chaotic from fervent fingers. Unnervingly, Phil’s forehead is furrowed, but one corner of his lip is pinched in a smirk, as if he’s unsure whether to be happy or plain terrified; hands crooked in his pockets, he holds himself as if he’s balancing on a missing puzzle piece.

For a moment, they both stay eerily silent, held in by pounding blood and footsteps. They look like they’ve both seen a ghost. As he scrambles for something to say - does he say hello or goodbye? - he supposes they have. He comes up empty handed.

“Please listen to me. I didn’t mean anything I said,” Phil begins. There’s a rush of emotion and it’s unclear whether it’s the hope returning or draining. “I was so wrong and I am so _sorry_ because I really need you, you know? You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met and you’re a good friend, and I mean _that_ , I’m sure of it. You could never be annoying or useless or dumb or unwanted. Not to me. I want you to talk to me again. I know it’s not that simple, but I would really love it if we could at least talk this through?” Each word a dose of rapport certainty, Phil doesn’t take his eyes off Dan and Dan can’t look away.

“Okay.” Dan bites his lip. He shouldn’t come running back so quickly as if he wasn’t left to deal with his broken self. But, just like when, all those days ago, Dan could sense something was wrong before Phil opened his mouth, he can tell Phil really does regret it. Dan’s learning that a person’s take on him is valuable, so if Phil doesn’t mean it, he can take that to heart.

He hasn't forgiven him yet, but he could.

So Dan lets his smile fly like a flag, white as clacking bones.

Phil exhales wrung-out concern. “Okay,” he repeats.

Phil, snapping out of it, starts walking off down the street, and after a second, Dan follows him. He burrows his hands farther down into his pockets and buries his head down into the collar of his jacket. Limp and curling, his hair is damp from the drizzle he got caught in on the way to his lecture. When Phil ducks into a side road, Dan follows a few paces behind; eventually they land up on a bench under an extinguished street light. They sit with space between them, both staring ahead. Dan’s legs swing back and forth, toes trailing on the concrete, while Phil’s remain glued to the spot. His hands, however, twist and bend around each other. Dan’s do not.

“Why did you say it?” Dan asks, not moving his head.

Stiffening, Phil carefully says, “Because, at the time, I thought it was true.” Dan considers nodding.

They stare at the bricks of the shop wall opposite. The bricks stare back.

Lifting his hands up to gesture, and turning himself half of the way to Dan, Phil starts, “I’m really so -”

“I know,” Dan cuts him off - not frustrated, but not quite reassuring. Phil stops, relaxing back into the position he was in before.

Phil watches his lap. Tries again, “I shouldn’t -”

“It’s okay,” Dan interrupts. “Well. It wasn’t, and it still kind of isn’t, but I’ve had a good few weeks to figure it all out.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course.”

“I was going to quit university,” Dan informs after another silence.

Phil looks up in surprise. “You were?”

“Yeah,” Dan laughs, “I was so convinced. That’s what I meant when I said I wasn’t coming back.”

“Oh... And are you still -”

“No. I’m staying; you’re stuck with me for a while longer yet.”

“Oh,” Phil says again, timidly smiles before concealing it. It feels like they’re at their aphelions, plummeting towards perihelions.

 _What’s happening?_ He feels confused, churned up by clawed fingers; like the way paint drains away down a sink, acrylic and watercolour losing their hues to gore.

Phil lifts a shaking hand to move the hair from his eyes and says, “I looked stuff up. About,” he hesitates, “feeling down, and negativity. And I thought about it a lot. I really understand more now; I know how wrong I was. You don’t do it because you think it’s selfless and puts you above others. You do it because - and correct me if I’m wrong - you can’t believe how anything good could be true about you, and I’ve gone and made it worse by fueling you with more crap. Untrue crap. I’m so sorry. Too much was happening and I took it all out on you. I-I blew up. Like a star. Like a stupid, fucking star.”

Dan jokes, “Woah, calm down, Phil. Wash your mouth out,” before thinking it through.

“Shut up,” Phil mutters, and breathes out a laugh that scrapes the roof of his mouth. He hesitates before adding, “Have you been to the doctors?”

“No.”

“They could help.”

“Yeah.”

Gaze trained on his lap again, Phil sighs, “What am I going to do now? What are _we_ going to do now?” It’s not exasperated, not annoyed - it edges on worry more than anything; it’s tired. Dan looks to the person on his left and, for the first time, Phil just looks tired. Not sad, not angry; there is nothing else there. Atrophy draws his brow down, the weight of everything has drained him and he looks lost, a husk of who he normally is. Part of that is because of Dan.

“I don’t know,” dilapidates whatever faith there was before, and it hangs heavy. “But I don’t think you’re meant to fix this. I think you’ve just got to cut yourself off from him. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I told you differently.” He’s lost count of how many times ‘sorry’ has been uttered, but it slips comfortably from his bottom lip, so much so that he can’t stop saying it.

“No, I’m sorry for saying all that stuff to you. You were just trying your best to help.”

Dan loses himself in his own questions, liaising with possibility and chasing certainty until he dares to say, “I don’t think you’re totally wrong. Does it really hurt when I brush you off?”

“Kind of. But I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s not your _fault,_ Dan.”

Dan steadies himself - this is it, now. “But maybe I could do something, right? I could accept your compliments, I could try and put as much energy into being positive as possible,” and Dan recounts to Phil what he realised, about how it’s almost comfortable and how it’s easy not to try; when he says ‘before’ in regards to how he viewed it all, it gives a spike of pride. ‘Before’ is in the past, now. He turns to face Phil some time during it, and their knees knock. Neither react; though, it’s the first contact they’ve made in a while.

“Dan,” Phil says once he’s finished.

“No, it’s okay. The sadness isn’t my fault -” it feels crazy to name it, like it exists, “- but this is under my control. I could help this. You were out of line,” Phil bites his lip and ducks his head, but knows to say nothing, “but you’ve opened my eyes to something I didn’t even know I was doing.”

“Give yourself some credit,” Phil mumbles, fond.

“Okay.” Dan smiles and continues, “If I’m to feel okay, I’ve got to ditch this ‘I want to stay bad’ attitude.”

Phil regards him steadily, and Dan makes sure he looks as sincere as he feels.

“It’ll be hard.”

“I know. But I want to try.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Like I said, you’ve helped me realise this. You’ve helped me, full stop.” People never walk into someone’s life and change it. Phil was never going to save Dan, because that’s not what real people do. Dan was never going to save Phil. But help? That’s something he can do.

All Dan ever hears is _“die for you will you die for me.”_ It forms the cliff edges people fall from, drives forward like the bullets they pledge to jump into, but it is not what he needs to hear. He does not need to sign his death papers. He does not need to hear that someone would die before trying to save them both. He needs a reason to cling on to the rock edge, needs to cling on to this and haul his way back up, and not believe the edge is a waterfall of pink grapefruit lemonade while really it’s molten rock and a fall. Gradually, he’s finding that in himself, and he’s already found it in others. So he says, “I’d live for you, I think.” That means more.

Suddenly flushed and fidgety, Dan feels his heart rate increase. It’s a forward thing to say: Phil could easily find it cliche and uncomfortable.

Before his confidence can buckle completely, he’s looking at Phil again, drinking in protostars and nuclear fusion from the iced air around them; learning a person has always felt like discovering the details of an asteroid.

There’s a rustle of fabric and then Phil’s hand is on Dan’s on the bench between them. Dan looks at his shoes. His attention is taken by the mud stain on his shoe as he tries to scrape it away with his toe.

None of this has any clear meaning. Nor can he allow himself to think it does. This is the first time they’ve spoken since they broke away under each other’s fingertips - yet, here they are, fumbling to piece each other back together with clumsy hands and marzipan limbs. Is Phil taking his hand to comfort Dan? To show he agrees?

It’s not so cold anymore, but still Dan hides his face in his collar.

Does Phil even know himself?

Both sit with their own thoughts spiralling around their heads in planetary rings, fumarole heat where the two bodies meet. They could be binary stars, because there’s a common mass between them that they are sprinting around and towards. Or, perhaps they are planets with cross-hatching trajectories, orbits that were condemned from the start.

After two minutes of brittle silence, Dan loses his patience and looks up again. Phil offers him a shy smile like clashing zeniths and white blossoms. Dan smiles back, can’t quite look away. The understanding is here, clasped between their hands and the folds of their jackets.

Collapsing around them is the sunset: vibrant and aureate and cranberry red. The clouds are in such a pattern that resembles line upon line of bolstered cushions, the colour on the sides slashed with purple-grey shadow. Sunsets are even more impressive when you are stood under them in the open air. The colour is so feverish that it waters the earth with a diluted shade, setting illuminated poppies blossoming in their irises.

It’s awe inspiring. The pattering of colours against them, it makes Dan think Phil is paint poured down the sink the right way: sometimes it comes together in a spiral of beauty, lazy chance gone right. Limbs of colour mashed together yet not ruined. Everyone is made from recycled atoms, different dregs of colour, and Dan is glad they came together in this way.

It comes to mind that, actually, this could be applied to everyone. The fact that anyone is made at all means they are the ornament of probability with its back turned.

He stares down at his own red-flushed hands. Curls his fingers. Considers.

It would seem the nerves that trouble them become too much for Phil, because he jumps up, taking Dan with him. They can look at each other easily now, face to face.

“Hey,” Phil breathes, “D’you remember that time you asked me to describe you?”

“...Yes.”

“And I didn’t?”

Dan nods. “I was mildly offended.”

“Well, can I do it now?”

Dan hesitates, “...Okay.”

“Right.”

Dan doesn’t know what to expect, and, from the way Phil’s eyes flicker, it would seem he doesn’t either. Phil continues, jittery, “Let’s see. Um. This is horribly pretentious but it’s how I work. God. Okay.” Phil’s hands fly up and down and around as he briefs Dan. Dan wants to hold them still. He doesn’t.

“You hold a lot in the corners of your mouth. And you remind me of old books and sleep.” Phil thinks for a second. “When you concentrate your cheek dimples, but you don’t realise - which is good, because if you did I think you’d stop yourself.”

“I’ll have to be careful from now on, then.”

“Don’t you dare,” Phil orders, pointing a finger at Dan.

“Keep going. Make me feel obnoxiously good about myself.”

Phil mutters, “Arsehole,” and ignores Dan when he raises his eyebrows. Pensive again, Phil regards him and Dan squirms under the scrutiny, although Phil’s disembodied look suggests he is remembering, not observing.

“You guard yourself with picket-white fences and try to pick your heart off your sleeve with blunt pencils, but you’re the person who seems to be fully themselves when they smile - a proper smile, wide and toothy and crinkle-eyed.” Phil takes a step forward. Dan stays very, very still. “You light up and it’s like you don’t care anymore - you let yourself become the very best version of you. It’s the same when you laugh. It’s like you unravel. All the tension goes. Not to mention, it’s very contagious.”

Dan stutters a laugh and Phil says, “Yeah, like that.” Dan feels very lost when he realises there is no easy way for him to elbow Phil. “Shut up,” he settles with. Phil cocks an eyebrow, ‘ _okay then’_ and Dan adds, “You know I don’t mean that.”

Phil laughs easily, “Okay,” and continues, “You believe in people when they don’t and that makes them want do their best, _you_ make people want to do better. Even if you don’t see it. You make me feel like I’m a great thing, like candlelight in thunderstorms and meteor showers on clear nights and anything else you can think of. And, you know, maybe we are just walking disasters but that doesn’t matter when you make me feel like A Great Thing.”

“You make me feel like A Great Thing, too,” Dan replies. And, okay. Maybe he’s crying, but this is never said aloud. This is kept for dusty fairy tales and films. Even if Phil is a writer, even if he’s had months to prepare this, this doesn’t happen. And the things he said... It’s like calling used furniture pre-loved, or death an adventure. The only things convincing Dan that _yes, this is happening,_ are how Phil’s words stagger like wet pebbles in his mouth and how his finger trembles as it ghosts Dan’s cheek, saying, “Aw, no, don’t cry. I can’t be responsible for upsetting someone.”

“I’m not _upset_ ,” Dan corrects. It’s as if he only needs to breathe to feel Phil’s heart against his chest - which is good because, right now, Dan really needs to remember to do just that. “You’re a loser.” (Story Book Perfect belongs shoved at the back of wardrobes.)

Phil breathes out a laugh and his augmented smile glows red in the sunset. Smiles and laughs are candy they’ve chewed on so often, lately - sweet and addictive - that their jaws ache. “I know,” Phil gloats, practically preens himself with strawberry laced lips and a jacket slipping down his right shoulder.

They either need to move closer or farther away. But Dan almost wants to preserve the limbo-sized space between them. There’s exploding stars dappling the air, exhales dissipate on Dan’s lips and their breath mingles because there’s only so much air in space, after all.

“If,” Dan muses, twisting a foot on the asphalt, and watches as the word grabs Phil’s attention swiftly, “you could have anything, what would it be?”

“A time machine.” The phrase falls out of his mouth almost instantly.

“Where would you go?”

“To the Jurassic era. Walk alongside a T-rex and ask them what it’s like to believe you’re never going to die.”

Dan snorts, “Fuck off,” kicks at Phil’s toe. “Answer properly.”

“I’d go back to the day we met, then.” Phil straightens his spine and determinedly looks at Dan; Dan only just realises how they are so close that he has to bend his neck to meet Phil’s eyes.

Blood picks up a calypso beat in his ears as he asks, “What would you do differently?”

Phil’s reply is a bare breath, and once again their amorets are promises of pretense. “Nothing.”

Dan discovers they have been binary stars for a long while, forever orbiting from a designated distance. Either they have found a way to fight that, to eradicate fate completely like it’s chalk, or chance has brought their paths together at just the right time, because the way they collide is clumsy camaraderie.

They’re kissing and then Phil’s pulling away, tilting his head to the side and checking, “Okay?” as if their faces aren’t wholly alight and their veins aren’t coursing with A Great Thing on faulty repeat.

“Of fucking course.” Dan wobbles onto tiptoes to kiss Phil again and Phil laughs into it, amused by how Dan slips to keep upright, before catching one of Dan’s hands with his own and settling his other on Dan’s hip to hold him steady.

Dan’s astrolabe heart stops searching.

“Stop bullying me,” Dan mutters.

“I’m not!”

Phil just kisses him again, and they do so again and again with gentle abandon and an esoteric relief until the time they both spent waiting finally rots away.

(When Earth crashed with Theia, it created the moon and destroyed the smaller planet. Who is going to survive out of this? Will anything come of it?)

“You’re still lame,” Dan says when he pulls away, still tugging on Phil’s hand. He prods at the Lord of the Rings shirt that shows behind Phil’s jacket.

“And you’re still an arsehole,” Phil acknowledges. Then, “Glad we’ve sorted that out.”

Dan coils his hand round Phil’s back in a limp embrace before slipping an ice-cold hand under the fabric, onto the warm skin of Phil’s lower back.

Phil takes Dan back to his house laughing, their arms linked in a giddy ‘x’. They want to stay close; their wiry rib cages press together. Phil lights his scented candles. He boils the kettle, and spills the water as he pours it. Teasing, Dan takes Phil’s hands and guides them, again standing on tiptoes to see over Phil’s shoulder. The hot drink is abandoned on the side as they embrace and sway to a lilac lullaby, eyes taped shut and knuckles tight.

A perfume runs through the house’s veins: the aroma of old books and coffee and vanilla. Ink smudges on Dan’s hand when Phil interlocks their spare hands. _Don’t let go._

-

In the centre of the universe, there is nothing. There is not even an emptiness, for there is nothing to be emptied. You cannot hear, you cannot see, you cannot stand. Happiness is just a feeling.

The stars that breathe new life will end as black holes and neutron stars - _bang_ ; supernovae started off as protostars and stardust. All will end off as nothing. The universe does not care. The universe cannot care.

Which is why we must care for each other. That is where our worth lives: in a camaraderie, a treaty held within the inevitability of the end. It will last as long as we do, which is all we can hope for, and more.

Which is why Dan and Phil hold each other closer (and closer and closer and _closer_ ). Together they dream, as they hold onto the cliff edge of their forevers.

-

_and now, dear reader, i shall leave you with a quote: i love you._

_-_

_fin_


End file.
